The Words Between Us.

### **Conversations We Never Had*

**By: \[Adil Khalid]

“The Kitchen Light”**

(SFX: Soft hum of a fridge. A chair scrapes the floor. A quiet sigh. Mic click.)

**JAMES (soft, almost hesitant):**

I don’t know why I’m recording this.

Maybe because the silence feels too loud lately. Or because I keep talking to you in my head, and I figured… why not do it out loud?

It’s been… seven weeks since you left.

But the kitchen light? It’s still flickering like you used to complain about.

I promised I’d fix it.

I didn’t.

Funny how that bulb has more commitment to this place than I do now.

(Pause. A sip of something. Maybe coffee.)

You always said I talk more to myself than to you.

Maybe you were right.

But I listened. I did. I just… didn’t always respond the way you needed.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

That’s the thread I keep pulling at.

The little unraveling I never noticed until the sweater was gone.

(SFX: Wind brushes against a window. A faint creak of wood.)

Remember the night we argued about the dishes?

God—it wasn’t even about the dishes.

You stood at the sink, hands wet, eyes tired.

You weren’t angry that I forgot. You were tired of being forgotten.

And I didn’t get it.

I said something stupid like, *“It’s just a plate.”*

You went quiet.

I thought the silence meant it was over.

It was really just beginning.

(Pause. Breath.)

I should’ve asked what that plate really meant.

What it symbolized.

I should’ve heard the weight beneath your voice.

But I didn’t.

And you didn’t push.

You never did.

You always waited for me to catch up.

(SFX: Pen tapping lightly. A shift in chair.)

I saw your new post yesterday.

Your smile looks real now.

Lighter.

He was in the photo.

I didn’t recognize him. But I didn’t need to.

You looked safe.

And that’s more than I ever gave you.

(Pause.)

It’s strange—grief without a funeral.

You’re not gone.

You just left.

Which is worse in some ways, because I don’t get to mourn.

I just… pause.

And rewatch everything like a film I should’ve paid attention to the first time.

Remember that bookstore you loved?

The one with the crooked floors and the cinnamon coffee?

I went back.

The barista asked about you.

I said you were doing well.

She smiled. Said, *“She was always too kind for this world.”*

I wanted to correct her.

Tell her you weren’t just kind—you were fierce.

You were brilliant.

You were patient in a world that rushes past people like you.

But I didn’t.

Because I didn’t know how to say all that without crying.

(Pause. SFX: Chair creaks again.)

I wonder if you ever think about that trip to the lake.

That late September wind, the way we stayed up watching the stars burn cold.

You fell asleep on my chest.

And I remember thinking—

*This is it. This is what forever feels like.*

And then I forgot.

Somewhere between work emails and unspoken things,

I forgot how to hold you like that night.

How to speak without fear.

How to love without armor.

(SFX: A deep breath. Voice cracks just slightly.)

I’m not recording this for closure.

Or to win you back.

I think I just need to say these things—to say *something*—instead of carrying them like stones in my throat.

You deserved more.

You deserved effort in the quiet moments, not just the grand apologies.

You deserved to be heard when you whispered, not just when you screamed.

(Silence. Then soft laughter, sad but fond.)

You once said, *“I don’t need fireworks. I just want someone who shows up.”*

I remember nodding.

And still, I kept showing up late.

Or not at all.

I’m sorry.

(SFX: Night insects hum faintly outside. A dog barks far away.)

This isn’t a love letter.

It’s not even a goodbye.

It’s just… a conversation we never had.

And maybe you’ll never hear this.

Maybe you’ve moved so far forward that my voice is just background noise in a life that finally feels good.

But I’ll keep recording these.

Not for you, but for the part of me that’s trying to learn.

To do better.

To be better.

So that next time,

with someone else,

I don’t forget the little things.

The dish in the sink.

The bookstore on Sundays.

The way someone holds your hand when they’re scared.

(Pause. One last breath.)

Goodnight, Ava.