Unspoken words

The forest was quiet as they walked, shadows stretching long and soft under the canopy. Emily felt the lingering weight of their last conversation as if the words were etched into the air around them, hovering like a tension she couldn't quite shake. George, usually quick with his jokes and laughter, was quieter than usual, his gaze flickering between the path and her, as though measuring a distance she couldn't name.

They found a narrow path that led down a small slope, where the forest opened into a glen, bright with dappled sunlight. It felt different here—safe as if everything lurking in the shadows had forgotten this place. They stopped near a fallen log, George leaning back against it while Emily sank beside him, stretching her legs in front of her.

"You know, I don't think I ever get used to it," Emily said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was softer than usual as if she were speaking to herself as much as to him. "Everything we've been through. It's… disorienting. But you…" she trailed off, glancing at him. "You always seem so unfazed. Like none of this gets to you."

George laughed, but there was something unreadable in his eyes, a faint shadow that made his face seem older, more serious than she was used to. He looked away, studying a patch of moss on the ground, his fingers absently tracing a line along the bark of the log.

"It's funny," he said finally, his tone light but layered with something Emily couldn't quite grasp. "I guess you could say I had a lot of practice growing up. Things were… intense, back then." He paused, as if weighing how much he wanted to say. "Lost my parents when I was a kid. Car accident. I ended up in an orphanage."

Emily's gaze softened, her heart twinging at the hint of pain in his voice. He had never talked about this before, never given her even a glimpse of the past that had shaped him. She wanted to say something—anything that might ease the weight of his memories—but he continued before she could find the right words.

"Funny thing is," he said, forcing a small smile, "after a while, you get used to pushing everything down. Humor helps. Makes things feel… lighter, I guess. Easier to ignore the stuff you don't want to think about."

He hesitated, looking off into the distance as if seeing a world far away. "When you're a kid, that kind of loss—it changes something inside you. At first, I didn't know how to feel anything. I would sit alone, watching the other kids play, wondering why I couldn't feel the same. I'd see their laughter, the way they connected, and it was like a barrier between me and them."

He looked at Emily, a faint, rueful smile on his lips. "I learned to turn off whatever was left of those emotions because they didn't seem to matter. No one wanted a kid who was sad all the time, who reminded them of things they didn't want to feel either. So, I pretended. I put on this mask, tried to fit in."

Emily felt a pang of empathy, the weight of his words settling into her. "You pretended?"

"Yeah." He laughed quietly, but the sound was hollow. "I watched how the other kids acted, how they laughed and played. I studied it like some kind of puzzle, figuring out what parts made them likeable. It was easier to mimic them than to be myself because… well, I didn't know who I was anymore. I wasn't George, not the way I'd been before. I was just… a kid trying to survive in a place that felt nothing like home."

He shrugged, though his shoulders seemed heavy as if weighed down by memories. "I learned that laughter—cracking jokes, making people laugh—it made everything easier. It was like a bridge, letting me connect with the other kids, even if I didn't feel the same way. I'd make jokes about anything. Even things that probably shouldn't be funny." He chuckled darkly. "But it worked. It got me through."

Emily imagined him, a young boy amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces, learning to laugh at things that hurt, to cover up his pain with humour. She saw the way he still did it now, even with her—how he used his wit as a shield, deflecting anything that might bring his walls down.

"But after a while," George continued, his voice softer, "I realized it was more than just pretending. It became a habit. Suppressing everything… it just felt easier. Safer." He paused, as though testing the weight of his next words. "There's this strange numbness that sets in when you push things down for too long. It's like… the feelings are still there, somewhere deep, but they're muffled. Distant."

Emily nodded, her chest tight. She recognized the numbness he spoke of—the way it dulled the sharp edges of pain but also muted everything else, leaving only the hollow shell of what once was.

"It's hard to get close to people when you're like that," he said quietly. "When you've trained yourself not to feel too much. You laugh things off, and make everything a joke, because it's easier than letting someone see the real you. The one that's still…" He hesitated, his gaze dropping. "The one that's still hurting."

The forest seemed to hold its breath around them as if even the trees were listening, bearing witness to the quiet pain in his voice. Emily felt the urge to reach out, to touch his hand, to tell him that he didn't have to carry it all alone. But something held her back—an instinct, maybe, that told her he needed this space to let his words settle.

"I think I get it," she said finally, her voice gentle. "Sometimes, it feels like if you let yourself feel too much, it'll just… overwhelm everything else. So you keep it all locked away like it's safer that way."

George met her gaze, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. For a brief moment, something passed between them, a quiet understanding that needed no words. He gave a small nod, acknowledging the bond they shared—different yet deeply connected, like two sides of the same coin.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the glen. They sat in silence, the weight of their unspoken feelings lingering in the air. There was a strange comfort in the quiet, a shared understanding that filled the space between them, more powerful than any words could convey.

They stayed that way, side by side in the golden light, each of them holding onto the other's presence like an anchor. And though neither of them spoke, they both knew that something had shifted between them—something deeper, unspoken, that would follow them back into the shadows of whatever lay ahead.