The Conversation

He is telling you about the man he used to be, the one who could fix anything, the one whose hands the neighbours brought their kettles to, their lawnmowers, their daughters' bicycles, and you watch his hands on the wheel - the knuckles, the small scar where the grinder caught him in '04 - and you think about the word *sorry* and how it has never once left your mouth in the right order.

He says the house is quiet now. He says the dog doesn't come to the door anymore. He says your mother's chair is still in the corner and he can't move it, and you think about the chair, the way the fabric wore through at the arms, the way she held the armrest when she stood, the way the foam shows through like bone.

You wish he would take the motorway exit. You wish he would keep going past the turn, past the county line, out along the road that goes to the place on the map in the glovebox, the county you haven't visited since you were a child, and you would not have to say anything, and neither would he, and the road would do the talking for you both.

He says: you don't have to say anything.

And you don't. And the car keeps moving. And the houses keep passing, each one with its own quiet, its own chair, its own unmoved thing, and the word sits in your chest like a stone in a shoe, like a key that doesn't fit any door you've ever owned.

The engine ticks. The heater breathes. He turns the radio down and the silence is a room you both stand in, and neither of you leaves, and the road goes on being the road, and you go on being the one who didn't say it.

12.08.2026