What We Leave Unsaid

^{Neon – Samantha Brock}

What We Leave Unsaid

Benya Wilfret

Claire hated being noticed. It unraveled her, like a stray thread tugged free from a carefully stitched seam. But the man watching her wasn’t just anyone. His gaze pinned her to the polished barstool, steady and dark, as though he’d already decided who she was.

He stood at the far end of the bar, a whiskey glass in hand, his posture deliberate yet unassuming. For a moment too long, their eyes met. Her chest tightened, her pulse quickened, and she turned back to her gin and tonic. He couldn’t know her—just another guest surveying the room. And yet, when she glanced back, he was walking toward her.

“Do I know you?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.

The practiced smile came easily. “I don’t think so.”

His silence stretched just long enough to unsettle her, his gaze unflinching. “Not yet, then.”

The venue was too perfect, its edges smoothed to an unnatural shine. Polished hardwood floors, muted greens, fairy lights strung with a precision that begged to look effortless. It wasn’t just expensive—it was curated, a museum of happiness. Claire swirled her drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass. The decorations reminded her of lies people told themselves, dressed up to look softer than they were.

Ethan—he introduced himself eventually—didn’t belong in the tableau. He stood too still, watching the crowd like a man counting cracks in the facade. His observations came unbidden, each one cutting through the room’s carefully staged joy.

“That guy,” he said, nodding toward the best man fumbling with his tie, “is in love with her.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know that.”

“Watch him. The stammering when he gives a toast, the way he avoids looking at her too long. He wants to say something, but he won’t.”

“It’s a little cliché,” she replied, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Clichés exist because they’re true,” Ethan said. “And weddings are full of them.”

Claire hated how right he seemed. The best man’s nervous glances, the trembling in his hands—they all hinted at something unresolved. She looked away, the weight of Ethan’s words settling over her. Weddings weren’t about vows or speeches, were they? They were about silences—the things people didn’t say.

The courtyard was colder than Claire expected. The fountain gurgled softly, its rhythm uneven, like the sound of rain against glass. She perched on the fountain’s edge, heels dangling from her fingers, her gin and tonic forgotten beside her. Ethan stood a few steps away, his whiskey untouched, his posture suddenly rigid.

“Do you ever think about how much had to happen to get you here?” he asked.

Claire tilted her head. “Here at this wedding? Or here in general?”

“Both,” he said. “Every decision, every chance, every tiny thing. It all adds up to this. Us, here, tonight. Feels fragile, doesn’t it?”

The words made her shift uncomfortably. The sound of the fountain grew louder in her ears, blending with memories she had worked hard to suppress. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Ethan set his whiskey on the fountain’s edge, his fingers lingering on the glass. “Sometimes it’s not about things you don’t say,” he said softly. “It’s about the things you’ll never say.”

Claire’s breath caught, her grip tightening on the cold stone beneath her. “I don’t understand.”

“No,” he said, his jaw clenching as his gaze fixed on the dark horizon. “You do.”

Her pulse quickened, the sound of the fountain warping into the screech of tires, the twist of metal, the rain on the windshield. She forced herself to steady her voice. “Why are you here?”

Ethan’s eyes met hers, darker now, sharper. “To see what kind of life someone builds after they tear one apart.”

Her stomach twisted, the ground beneath her seeming to shift. “I don’t know what you think—”

“You do,” he interrupted, his voice unwavering. “You just wish you didn’t.”

The memory came in fragments. Rain streaking the windshield, the road slick and endless. The screech of tires. Twisting metal. Silence. A courtroom. Carefully rehearsed apologies. A name she had refused to learn.

She sat in her car, the wedding a blur behind her. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling as the weight of an unnamed dread pressed down on her chest. When the search results appeared, her breath hitched.

The name burned on the screen, stark and undeniable: Ethan. The rain, the screech, the silence crashed back into her mind like a storm she had spent years outrunning. Ethan. He wasn’t just a guest. He was the teenager’s brother. From the moment he’d walked up to her, he had known exactly who she was. Their meeting wasn’t chance. It was deliberate.

But why?

Had he wanted an apology? An explanation? Or something simpler: to see the life she had kept living while his brother’s had ended? He had taken nothing from her—not anger, not forgiveness. Only a quiet reminder of what she couldn’t undo.

It wasn’t his absence that haunted her. It was the truth he’d left behind—and the growing sense that running wasn’t enough anymore.

The road stretched empty ahead, winding into the night. For years, she had told herself it was behind her, that she had left it far enough away to fade. But now, she saw it clearly: the road hadn’t taken her anywhere. It had only circled back, waiting patiently for her return.