We Never Happened

Jasmine

Back in college, a professor once praised my observational skills, claiming I had a keen eye for detail. Yet, as I watched Sloan move gracefully through my apartment like a silent specter, I couldn't help but feel Mrs. Crawford had been overly generous in her assessment. Observation was meant for conducting experiments, and in this moment, Sloan was my unwitting subject. There was an elusive aura about him that I yearned to decipher, to unravel the mystery shrouding his every movement. But despite my year-long vigil, he remained an enigma, revealing nothing.

I observed as he glided effortlessly around the kitchen, a ghostly presence disturbing the silence.

"So, uhm, can I get you anything? Perhaps a glass of water or—"

"Where is it?" His voice cut through the air like a blade, his eyes not meeting mine as he leaned casually against the counter. I knew exactly what he was referring to, but surrendering it meant he would vanish before I could engage him in conversation.

"Where's what?" I feigned ignorance, buying myself a precious moment of reprieve.

"I haven't lit a cigarette in days because of you." His gaze drifted towards the broken microwave, a silent accusation hanging in the air. "Hand it over."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about right now." My laughter rang hollow, a feeble attempt to mask my apprehension. "Look I—"

"I am not going to ask again." His voice was a whisper, but the menace behind his words was unmistakable. I felt a shiver run down my spine.

With a trembling hand, I retreated to my room, retrieving the lighter from my drawer. I half-expected him to follow, but he remained rooted in the kitchen, a silent sentinel guarding his domain.

When I returned, his head tilted slightly, though he still refused to meet my gaze. Placing the lighter in his outstretched palm, I felt a surge of warmth course through me as our fingers brushed briefly. But Sloan remained impassive, unaffected by the electric current that pulsed between us.

He shoved the lighter into the pocket of his jacket and turned to leave, but desperation gripped me like a vice. "You're not going to ask what I did with it?" I blurted out, the words tumbling from my lips in a frantic attempt to keep him there. "I broke it," I added, the lie slipping out before I could stop it. I had to go with it, had to make him stay.

He paused, his back still turned to me, and for a fleeting moment, hope flickered within me. But then he spoke, his words slicing through the air like a cold blade. "You didn't use it."

Confusion furrowed my brow. "What makes you so sure I didn't?" I challenged, though deep down, I knew he was right. He wasn't stupid; he saw through me, saw through all my futile attempts to connect with him.

"Because you don't smoke," he replied matter-of-factly, his voice carrying a hint of finality as he moved toward the door.

"Why do you hate me?" The words slipped from my lips before I could censor them, driven by a raw desperation to understand. "I've tried, God knows I have, but you act like I don't even exist, like I'm invisible. Can you even see me?" My voice cracked, betraying the tumultuous storm raging within me. And then, unable to contain the anguish any longer, I cried out, "Why, Sloan? Why do you avoid me?"

He halted, his movements arrested by my impassioned plea. For a moment, hope surged within me, a flicker of possibility igniting in the darkness. But then he spoke, each word piercing my heart like a dagger.

"You do not matter enough for me to like or hate."

His words hung in the air, a crushing realization that left me reeling. I didn't know whether to be relieved that he had finally spoken more than three words to me or devastated by the harsh truth he laid bare. But I couldn't give up, couldn't let him walk away without facing me.