Unspoken Novels & Stories

And maybe it’s not always off the mark, but Lucas and Isaiah know plenty of things and love throwing out big and random words not everyone knows. “What did you just call me!?” Brant shouted. Case in point, he doesn’t know what a cockalorum is. And given the confused and terrified looks on Dennis and Matthew’s faces, they don’t know what a lickspittle is and don’t know to want to find out. “Lucas called you what you are. Don’t tell me you don’t know what a cockalorum is? What third-rate education are you getting in this school?" I chuckled. "Let me educate you, pillock. A cockalorum is a boastful and self-important person.” I taunted.

He in turn sat down beside me and offered me a drink, I took it and thanked him before taking a sip of it. “première nuit en couple, and many more nights to come.” he said, my brows furrowed. I looked at him, confusion is visible in my face. “I didn't know you speak french, but I didn't know what it means though.” I told him, he let out a small laugh. He didn't spoke again, instead he remained quiet. I turned to look at him and find him staring at me. I felt my cheeks flushed so I hid it from him by looking away.

His confession was like a key, unlocking a door to my own unspoken desires. Listening to him, I felt a resonance deep within me, a recognition of emotions I hadn't acknowledged. His words opened up a world of possibilities, a territory of feelings waiting to be explored. In that moment, I stood on the brink of something new, a precipice where unspoken promises hung in the air. Abaddon and I were at a crossroads, where our hearts beat in sync with the rhythm of the night, and the future felt both uncertain and full of potential.

And it’s growing. I saw it with the God of the Squeaky Floorboard. The little pest was whining about its tribute, a pathetic shimmer of power. The Unspoken just… looked at it. And I felt it, a tiny, psychic transaction. The Floorboard god went still, then puffed up, its squeak gaining a new, confident authority. In return, the Unspoken grew denser, more real. It had traded for a secret. The Floorboard’s hidden shame of being so insignificant. It’s a broker. A silent banker dealing in the currency of things unsaid.

I just can't feel a thing. I wrenched my hand free, my voice icy. "Tracy, we've got nothing to talk about." She looked like she had swallowed a lemon, but she did not say another word. I walked away from the cemetery, from the past. I bought my ticket out of there. However, just as I was about to step onto the plane, a familiar voice stopped me in my tracks. Thomas stood there, his face alight with hope and surprise. "Rebecca, you're really back!"

The silence between us was no longer just empty; it was charged with unspoken truths, with things we both knew but couldn’t say. “Just don’t get your hopes up. What you will find ahead may not be like what you expect.” His voice softened slightly, but the weight of his words hit me harder than I anticipated. It was like he was warning me, not just about what I might find, but about the consequences of seeking the truth. The unspoken message was clear: Sometimes, knowing more doesn’t bring the peace you think it will. It just opens up new doors, doors you might not want to open.

This was insane… “The hell is that I want to have you. So… Get the fuck over this bullshit game of yours already and let us move on. Can you do that?” Tristan looked really dangerous suddenly. “I’m not playing. I’m not playing any game with you. What on earth is wrong with you?”

The weight of unspoken words hung between us, heavy and suffocating. We exchanged glances, both grappling with the echoes of what had transpired earlier. The harsh words, the raised voices – it was an altercation that had left scars on the fabric of their relationship. The silence became a canvas for reflection, each lost in our thoughts yet acutely aware of the shared pain that bound us . After a prolonged pause, Bruno took a deep breath, breaking the quietude that enveloped them. "Veronica," he began, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity, "I have missed you ."

Finally, he set down his brush, whispering the title as if he might vanish if spoken too loudly: “Unseen.” He knew he would never show it to her. Maybe to anyone. Some things weren’t meant to be shared, not when they revealed more truth than words ever could. And yet, as he covered the canvas with a cloth, his phone buzzed faintly on the workbench. It was just a notification. Not her. Never her. Still, he found himself smiling—soft, sad, and unshaken. Because some silences, he realized, spoke louder than words.

The pack gathered quietly, their hearts heavy but united, ready to say their final farewell. Emory stepped onto the podium, his voice steady but thick with emotion. He spoke heartfelt words about his father, and as I listened, a strange warmth welled inside me—a bittersweet feeling of happiness intertwined with sadness. It was as if I had lost a member of my own family. I hadn’t known Matthias long, but the connection between our spirits had been unexpectedly deep, strong enough to leave a lasting imprint on my heart.