We Never Said Goodbye
The notification blinked quietly on Mark's screen sometime past 7 p.m.— @justt_thea accepted your follow request.
No confetti, no sound. Just a silent green tick that now gave him access to her world.
Mark's thumb hovered for a second before he tapped into her profile. The display picture was simple—maybe a soft blue sky with birds, or a glimpse of sunlight falling over pages. Her bio read:
"I write when I feel too much and speak too little."
That line alone made something stir in him. But what followed—
He scrolled slowly, absorbing each post like it was sacred. Thea's account wasn't crowded or flashy. It was delicate, almost curated for someone who understood how to read between the lines. Her poetry wasn't decorated with filters or hashtags—it was raw. Gentle. Brave.
One of the posts said:
"Some people are storms. But I… I want to be the breeze that stays after."
Another:
"Don't mistake my silence for peace. It's just that some wars don't make noise."
Each line felt like a doorway to a world Mark didn't know existed—but one he strangely felt at home in.
He felt a stillness, a warmth—a weight too, but not heavy. It was the feeling of finding something you didn't know you were missing. Something—or someone—you weren't prepared for.
He stared at the screen longer than he needed to, reading and rereading. Then finally, his fingers moved.
Mark:
"Hey, are you really Aria's sister?"
The message felt awkward. Pointless. But he couldn't think of a better opening line.
Several minutes passed. Then: typing.
@justt_thea:
"Yes :)"
"You're Mark, right?"
"Aria mentioned you once or twice."
He exhaled slowly. Somehow, her reply made his chest tighten and ease at the same time.
Mark:
"Yeah. I wasn't sure if I should message. I came across your poetry. And… I don't know, I felt something I haven't in a long time."
"How old are you"
Thea:
"That's probably the kindest message I've received in weeks."
"I'm 22"
"Thank you for reading. Not many do."
Mark:
"It wasn't reading. It was feeling. Each line—something about it just... settles deep. You write like it matters. Like every word chose to exist."
There was a pause.
Thea:
"That's how I write. With choice."
"I don't post often. But when I do, it's always something I couldn't keep inside."
He smiled.
Mark:
"What are you studying?"
Thea:
"Preparing for medical entrance. It's chaos."
Mark:
"And in the middle of that chaos, you write poetry like this?"
Thea:
"Maybe that's why I write. Keeps me sane."
Mark leaned his head back against the pillow. He wasn't sure what this conversation was. But something inside him had shifted.
He could already feel himself slipping.
Falling.
But falling into something unspoken. Something silent and slow. And that scared him.
Because he couldn't tell her. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He barely knew her. But her words? Her words knew him better than anyone had in years.
His phone buzzed.
Aria 🧃:
"You alive?"
Aria 🧃:
"Don't disappear again. I've got a frog meme with your name on it."
He stared at Aria's messages. A part of him ached for how simple it used to be—with her. Lighthearted, funny, comforting.
Now it felt different.
Not wrong, just... like something that belonged in another chapter.
Mark:
"Still alive. Just... caught up in thoughts."
Aria 🧃:
"You and your thoughts. They better not be about aliens again."
Mark:
"No aliens. Just poems."
Aria 🧃:
"Poems?"
He didn't reply.
Because in truth, his heart was still somewhere in Thea's words.
Back in the message thread, he re-read their brief exchange. And then...
Mark:
"Can I say something weird?"
Thea:
"Only if it's charmingly weird."
Mark:
"I think your words made me feel something I've been numb to. Just… something real. Something I never thought I would feel"
A pause.
Thea:
"That's not weird. That's probably the most human thing anyone's said to me in days."
He smiled.
But deep inside, he knew. It was more than human. More than simple appreciation.
It was the start of something he didn't yet have the language for.
He fell asleep that night with her words echoing in his head.
And a thought that wouldn't leave:
"How can someone I just met feel like someone I've always known?"