He Didn't Say It
“Oh, I won’t bother you again.”
With those quiet words, she stood to leave his office.
He wanted to stop her—to say, Don’t go. You don’t bother me. I love the way you tease me, annoy me, bug me.
But the words never found the courage to escape his heart.
And so, she left.
She left for good, and in her place, a hollow silence settled—a blank space that echoed louder than any goodbye.
At first, he just stared.
Then, slowly, that void began to shift.
Colors emerged—soft, fleeting tones like the brushstrokes of a fading dream.
He heard echoes too—her laughter, the rustle of her presence, the gentle hum of moments once alive.
It made him smile.
But beauty, like dreams, never lingers.
The colors dulled. The sounds dissolved into stillness.
Where had she gone?
From where had she come?
Was she ever real—or just a figment summoned from longing?
Had a dream walked into his world, only to vanish at the first touch of reality?
And then the truth struck him:
The destiny of all the dreams that become reality is disillusionment.
He sat with that thought, not bitter, but quiet—like someone who has finally understood a secret the world whispers only to those who have loved and lost.
