Unwritten Story

There’s an unwritten story about us. The reason it’s not written is that either one of us is afraid to pick up the pen and write it. We’ve both been so close to picking up that pen but we’d rather let the other one start the story. And until that moment, we’re going to have this infinite staredown at each other, a metaphorical staredown where nobody will win.

So, the one who picks up the pen first will dictate the terms of it. They will establish how this will flow but both of us are afraid of it aren’t we?

Because picking up the pen means taking responsibility for what happens next. It means putting feelings into words, making them real, and once they’re real, they can’t be ignored.

We dance around the edges of something that could be, waiting for the other to be brave enough to take the first step. Maybe it’s fear of rejection, fear of change, or simply the comfort of the unknown. Because once the story starts, we can’t pretend we don’t know how it began.

But here’s the thing—stories don’t write themselves. If we keep waiting, this story will remain unwritten, a lingering possibility instead of a reality. And maybe, just maybe, the only way to know how it ends is for one of us to finally take the pen and begin.