Until I Wrote Him
Not yet.
The thing about silence is that it’s louder than noise.
Louder than the music thudding in the walls, louder than the half-drunk laughter at the bar, louder even than the clinking glasses.
Silence speaks when words fail, and right now Monica’s silence was screaming at me.
I swirled the last of my drink, watching the amber liquid chase itself in tight circles. “You’re not here for nostalgia,” I said at last. “You didn’t drag me into this cesspool just to tell me you used to drink your loneliness away.”