The Art of the Unspoken

This study, published in Nature Aging in August of 2024 analyzed a ton of proteins and metabolites in people of various ages and found, when you put it all together, that there are some big changes in body chemistry over time and those changes peak at age 44 and age 60.

I've always thought the first word ever spoken was probably something mundane, like "Hey, pass the mammoth steak." But the first word ever written? That had to be something profound, something that captured the essence of human longing. Maybe it was "Love." Or "Lonely." Or perhaps, "Why?"

Tonight, I'm not alone, but I might as well be. I'm at this trendy new bar where the drinks are overpriced, and the ambiance is set to "pretentious." I'm here with my friend, Alex, who insists this place is the new hotspot for "meaningful connections."

"Meaningful connections, my foot," I mutter, sipping my artisanal cocktail that tastes like regret.

Alex, ever the optimist, nudges me. "Come on, you've got to put yourself out there. Look around, there's potential everywhere."

I scan the room. Potential? Sure, if potential means someone who might not ghost me after a week. My eyes land on a woman, mid-laugh, her hair catching the dim light like a halo.

"See her?" Alex whispers, nodding towards the laughing woman. "Go talk to her."

"Why?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. "So we can exchange pleasantries, maybe share a kiss that feels like a contractual obligation?"

Alex rolls his eyes. "You're impossible. Just go."

I stand, adjust my jacket, and approach her. Her name, I learn, is Clara. We talk about nothing and everything, the kind of conversation that's both superficial and deep, like wading in a shallow pool with hidden depths.

"So, what's your take on love?" Clara asks, her eyes twinkling with mischief or mockery, I can't tell.

"It's like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands," I reply. "You think you've got it, but it slips through your fingers."

She laughs, a sound that's both a balm and a blade. "That's poetic. But what if you just need the right technique?"

"Technique?" I echo, intrigued.

"Yeah, like how you kiss someone. It's all in the approach."

We delve into the mechanics of kissing, a topic I hadn't realized was so complex. "Should it be hard, soft, unexpected?" I muse aloud.

Clara leans in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "It's like art. The best pieces aren't about the technique but the emotion behind it."

Our conversation drifts, but the idea lingers. Love, kisses, connections - they're all about the unspoken, the emotion we pour into them, not the act itself.

Later, as I walk home, the city's lights blur into a tapestry of thoughts. I imagine kissing Clara, not because I'm in love, but to understand if there's truth in what she said. Would a kiss, given with genuine curiosity, be different?

I reach my apartment, the night still young, my mind buzzing with theories on love. I sit by my window, the city sprawling below, and whisper to the night, "How hard should you kiss someone to feel something real?"

The answer, I realize, isn't in the force or the technique but in the intent. Maybe love, like that first written word, isn't about what's said or done but what's felt, what's meant. And perhaps, just perhaps, the next time I kiss someone, it won't be about technique or desire, but about trying to convey something profound, something unspoken.

Days pass, and I find myself back at the bar, not for the overpriced drinks, but for the possibility of seeing Clara again. There she is, this time alone, her eyes scanning the room, perhaps looking for someone to share a moment with.

I approach, heart pounding with a mix of nervousness and excitement. "Clara," I say, her name feeling like a secret on my lips.

She turns, her smile genuine. "You came back."

"I did," I admit. "I've been thinking about what you said. About kissing, about love."

Her eyebrow arches. "And?"

"And I think I want to try something. With your permission, of course."

Her curiosity piqued, she nods. "What's the experiment?"

I step closer, the space between us charged with anticipation. "I want to kiss you, not because I'm in love, but to see if we can share something real, something beyond technique."

Her eyes search mine, looking for sincerity. Finding it, she whispers, "Okay."

Our lips meet, not with the force of passion, but with the gentle inquiry of two souls exploring the unknown. It's soft, questioning, and in that moment, I understand. It's not about how hard or soft, but about the intent, the unspoken dialogue between us.

When we part, there's a new understanding, a connection forged not in fire but in the quiet exchange of breath and emotion.

"Was that real?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Clara smiles, her eyes reflecting the city lights. "It felt like it."

And in that bar, amidst the noise and pretense, we found something genuine, something unspoken, something real.