“Echoes of What I Didn’t Say” By Nicholas Henriksen

Editor’s Note: This is one of the stories in Talon Magazine Inspired Minds, which can be found on news stands around campus. The Talon Staff will host an Open Mic night for students whose pieces were accepted in the newest edition of the Inspired Minds Magazine. On Dec. 6, the event will be hosted between 5:30 p.m. and 8 p.m. at the University Center Mabry Theater.

By NICHOLAS HENRIKSEN/Inspired Minds Contributor 

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor. The room was quiet, but my mind was anything but.

You shouldn’t have said that.

I rubbed my temples. “It wasn’t that bad. I had to tell her how I felt.”

Yeah, but not like that. You know how she is. You know what she needed.

I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. “She wasn’t listening. I had to make her understand.”

And how’d that work out?

I leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. My chest felt tight, like there was this weight pressing down on me. Her face flashed in my mind, the words I’d said to her echoing back—sharp and jagged.

“You twist things,” I muttered. “It’s not all on me.”

Maybe not all on you, but enough. You could’ve been kinder, more patient. You know she’s been going through a lot.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been going through stuff too!” I snapped, like I was actually talking to someone in the room. “She wasn’t the only one hurting.”

So that’s why you lashed out? Because you were hurting? That makes it okay?

I closed my eyes. The guilt crept over me like a shadow. I had loved her. Hell, maybe I still did. But everything between us had felt wrong lately, tangled up in misunderstandings and words that never seemed to come out right. And every time I tried to fix things, I just made it worse.

She wasn’t asking for much. Just a little reassurance.

“And I gave it to her!” My voice rose, even though no one was here to hear it but me. “But she kept pushing, doubting everything I said, like nothing was enough.”

Maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe you weren’t enough.

That one stung, and I sat there, quiet. The lump in my throat was hard to swallow. “I tried. I did everything I could.”

But you gave up in the end, didn’t you?

“I didn’t give up. She left.”

Because you pushed her away.

That hit me like a punch to the gut. I wanted to fight it, argue back, but deep down, I knew it was true. I had been defensive, angry. Instead of listening to her, I shut her out, too scared to admit I might be wrong, too scared of feeling weak.

“You think it’s easy,” I muttered. “To always say the right thing, to be the perfect boyfriend.”

No one asked you to be perfect. You just needed to be better.

I stood up and started pacing, like moving might clear the mess in my head. I couldn’t stop replaying that last conversation—the way her voice cracked when she said, “I can’t do this anymore.” I had wanted to pull her close, tell her I didn’t want to lose her—but I couldn’t. My pride kept me still.

You didn’t even say you were sorry.

“Why should I have been the one to apologize?” I gripped the back of the chair, as if holding it could keep me grounded. “She was wrong too.”

Maybe. But does it matter now?

I stood there, breathing heavily. No, it didn’t matter who was right. What mattered was that she was gone, and now all I had was this hollow ache and the endless loop of my own thoughts.

You miss her, don’t you?

I slumped back down onto the bed, my head in my hands. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I do.”

Then why didn’t you just tell her that?

“I don’t know,” I muttered, my voice breaking. “I don’t know.”