We Never Said Goodbye
The city wore its silence like a comforter that night—hushed, slow, and still breathing.
Mark walked down the familiar street, his hands in his jacket pockets, his steps steady beneath the dim streetlights. Every cracked tile in the pavement, every flickering streetlamp, every quiet moment between—he knew them by heart.
His headphones rested around his neck, playing nothing.
He didn't need music tonight.
He had something better: a mind full of moments.
Aria's messages still sat in his pocket like a warm secret. Her sarcasm, her laughter, her chaos—it clung to him even after the screen dimmed.
The gate of his home creaked as he pushed it open.
The house was quiet—lights dimmed, the faint scent of dinner still hanging in the air. His mother had probably already gone to bed. His younger brother's room leaked low music from behind a closed door, while his father's worn slippers sat just inside the door, perfectly aligned like always.
He slipped his shoes off silently, stepping inside with practiced ease.
He wasn't the loud type. He never had been.
His room was at the far end of the hallway, tucked between the prayer room and the storeroom that everyone kept forgetting existed. A small space with soft lighting, a worn-out desk, and a bed that squeaked a little too much.
But it was his world.
Books, carefully lined up. Notes he never threw away. A thermos he filled with warm water every night even if he didn't drink it.
Mark lived with his family, but he had mastered the art of gentle presence—never too loud, never too distant. He was the kind of son who didn't cause worry, the kind of brother who gave space without needing to be asked.
Still, he always observed. Always listened.
He sat by his window, phone resting on his knee.
His thoughts drifted like the quiet breeze pushing the curtains back. He thought of the moment he'd seen Aria in person. How real it had felt—how easy.
They weren't the kind of friends who texted every hour. But every conversation carried weight. Meaning. A strange sense of belonging that didn't need declarations.
Earlier in the day, she'd mentioned her boyfriend.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not to make a point.
Just a mention.
He didn't flinch. He hadn't expected anything from her—not that way. Her presence in his life had never felt like a missing piece. She was more like a mirror. Someone who understood him without making it complicated.
He opened Instagram.
Their chat thread blinked at the top.
Mark:
"You're a good person, you know."
The reply came almost instantly.
Aria 🧃:
"Where's this random therapy session coming from?"
"What did I do now?"
Mark:
"Nothing. That's what makes it something."
He waited.
He always waited after sending messages like that. Not for validation. But to feel what came back.
Aria 🧃:
"You think too much, Mark."
"But that might be the reason I actually listen when you talk."
Mark:
"That sounds like a confession."
Aria 🧃:
"Nah. Just a public service announcement."
"Now go to sleep. You've used up your one poetic moment of the day."
He smiled, setting the phone down.
His mother coughed faintly in the other room. The refrigerator made its sleepy click. Outside, a dog barked, the neighborhood night continuing in its slow rhythm.
Mark pulled the curtain wider and looked out.
He wasn't thinking about love. He wasn't lonely.
He just appreciated people who didn't make noise but still stayed.
That was Aria.
Not a fairytale.
Not a dramatic distraction.
Just someone real.
And sometimes, that was everything.