“Are stories for you what they are to me?” he asked.
“And what are they to you?” she questioned for reply.
“…The conversations, with another, that you never had; lucid memories, known in heart, of moments you never dared or chanced to live?”
He laughed and smiled meek after speak as he felt the warmth fast-rush to his face in blush beneath its weathered tan as he imagined himself writing words he spoke and she not truly there, together and present in the flesh.
She smiled back with levity that was counterbalance to his spirit’s weight, a way and gift uniquely hers of making light and restoring ease when spirit weighed too heavy.
Her lightness and peace extended into him. Soul laid its wrought and worries low before light and levity of her own.
“Maybe some,” she spoke, elaborating and speaking no more to, “but others I have lived—as I know that you have too: treasured moments saved in word to relive again, in mind and spirit, when returned to and remembered in form of their worded capture.
They can both be special—the fictions and the truths—and should they blend, maybe they’re made special all the more: losing sight of real and false, life and dream, so the latter or more fully believed and, by, are given greater chance to be.”
“Why limit? Why define?” she asked on. “Why leave and end as story the conversations—with another—you never had? Why not write the story as beginning and invite the other in?
A story is only sad, a story is only hopeless—set and fixed in fate—if you choose and write it so. Make it more. Write it better—a beginning and not an end.
Invite the other in…” believing there was more—tone in which he’d asked, his blush, and the way he looked away, near to but not eye-to-eye—she spoke to the left unsaid. “They might answer if you did…”