Chapter Four: The Things He Didn’t Say Part 1**

Neon didn’t sleep that night.

I knew because I didn’t either.

We lay side by side on his mattress, the fairy lights above us flickering like they were trying to remember how to glow. The room was quiet, except for the occasional creak of the building settling and the soft hum of the city outside.

He stared at the ceiling like it was a canvas he couldn’t paint on.

I stared at him.

His fingers moved slowly, tracing invisible shapes in the air. I wondered what he was drawing. Regret? Memory? A version of himself he hadn’t met yet?

“I used to dream in color,” he said suddenly.

I turned toward him. “What do you mean?”

“Now everything’s gray. Even the good dreams.”

---

I didn’t know how to respond.

So I reached out and touched his wrist, just lightly. His skin was cool, like he’d been holding something cold inside him for too long.

He didn’t pull away.

“I think I forgot how to want things,” he whispered.

I swallowed. “Want me.”

He turned his head slowly, eyes meeting mine.

“I do,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

---

We didn’t kiss.

We didn’t need to.

The space between us was already full of everything we weren’t saying.

---

The next morning, he was gone.

Not vanished. Just… out.

He left a note on the desk. A single line:

> *Needed air. Don’t wait for me.*

I waited anyway.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the rings he’d left behind. All three, lined up like punctuation marks. I picked one up—the chipped one—and slid it onto my finger.

It didn’t fit.

But I wore it anyway.

---

Hours passed.

I read through his notebooks. Not to invade. Just to understand.

Most of the pages were drawings. Some were words. One page had a list:

> - Things I wish I could say

> - I’m scared

> - I miss her

> - I miss me

> - I don’t know how to stay

> - I don’t know how to leave

> - I think I love you

> - I think I ruin everything I love

I closed the notebook gently.

I didn’t cry.

But something inside me did.

---

I stayed in his apartment longer than I should have.

The light outside shifted from silver to gold, then to the kind of blue that feels like forgetting. I didn’t touch anything else. Just sat there, surrounded by the echoes of him. The notebooks. The rings. The photo of his sister, still smiling like she didn’t know how the story would end.

I kept thinking he’d walk through the door.

That he’d say something like, “Sorry I took so long,” or “I got lost,” or even just “Hey.”

But the door stayed closed.

And the silence started to feel like punishment.

I left just before midnight.

The streets were empty, except for the occasional car and the hum of streetlights. I walked slowly, like I was trying to stretch the distance between me and the moment I realized he might not come back.

When I got home, I couldn’t sleep.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything he’d ever said. Every half-truth. Every almost-confession. Every time he looked at me like I was something he didn’t deserve.

I wanted to be angry.

But all I felt was hollow.

The next morning, I checked my phone more times than I want to admit.

No messages.

No missed calls.

No sign of him.

I went to the café. Sat in the same corner. Ordered the lemon cake. Left half of it untouched.

I walked to the bridge. Leaned against the railing. Watched the river move like it was trying to carry something away.

I whispered his name once.

Just to see if the wind would answer.

It didn’t.

to be continue😁😁