🎼A little sonic profile for a character I’m currently writing—glad you’re vibing with their story. 🌑 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- UNSENT [The Static in the Pulse] The screen flickers blue in the middle of the night A three-dot bubble, then a ghosting light I told myself you were busy with the day While everything I meant stayed a mile away We never really talked, you see Just digital shadows, you and me Oh, it’s a quiet kind of ending For a story that never began We were keeping it simple, just pretending Holding onto water in the palm of our hand Now the static in between is all that’s left of the plan I sent a heart, you sent a "read" Searching for the things that we never said I typed a real question, then I hit delete Scared I'd lose the ground beneath my feet It seemed like too much, it felt like a cliff Living in the "maybe" and the "what if" The list goes on, your name is still there A ghost in the wires, a breath in the air I haven't clicked, I'm not that brave To dig up the silence inside of this grave Is it over? Can it be? When there was never a "you" and "me"? There wasn't a shout, there wasn't a tear You just stopped appearing, then the year disappeared A digital pulse that lost its beat Like a stranger passing on a rain-slicked street It’s strange how a fire can lose its glow Before it ever had a chance to grow We never really talked... (Never really talked) No, we never really talked... (Just stayed where it was) Unsent... In the list... In the dark... ------------------------------------------------------------------------- 📖 [The Story: The Static in the Pulse] We never really talked. There were messages, of course—blue ghosts flickering in the palm of my hand. You replied late, or not at all, leaving me to wander through the white space between your words. I told myself you were busy, a convenient fiction I curated to keep the cold at bay. Sometimes you reacted with a single emoji. A yellow smile, frozen and flat. I’d stare at those few pixels until they lost their meaning, trying to decode the frequency of a signal that wasn't there. It felt like an ocean hidden under a thin sheet of ice, but neither of us was brave enough to crack the surface. Once, I almost broke the protocol. I typed a real question—the kind that leaves a mark. I watched the cursor blink, a tiny black heart beating in the silence. Then, I held the backspace key until the screen was clean again. I didn't want to change the shape of the void we’d built so carefully. We weren’t avoiding anything on purpose. We were just residents of the simple lane, trading small coins of conversation while the gold stayed buried. You’d send a fragment; I’d answer in kind. A rhythmic, low-bit ritual that lasted longer than the seasons. There was no grand finale. No sudden cut-off. You just stopped appearing in the feed, like a frequency drifting out of range. Your name is still there, pinned to the list like a specimen in a museum. I haven’t opened it. I’m afraid of what the silence would sound like if I did. It’s strange—how a signal that never truly peaked can still leave so much static when it dies.
