"Say something I''d like," she says.


    She, the light of my life—the stars, the sun, the moon, the expanse, the wildlife, the chirp of birds, the beached whale, the scent of morning glories—my beginning and end. The laughter of children, the flickering of street lamps, the petrichor, the sunlight filtering through leaves, the blooming of spring, the departure of birds, the melting of snow, the candles on a birthday cake. The beginning, the end, the life, the death, the happiness, the misery, the silence, the scream... and sleep. Most importantly, sleep.


    She looks into my eyes and asks this simple thing of me. And I stare back, utterly unable to find such a thing. So I say nothing. My language is silence.


    She looks hopeless. But I hold her hands and gaze into her eyes, reassuring her that any moment now, I will speak, and I will say something truly marvelous, something she would like. But I cannot open my mouth. She waits, with only a speck of blazing excitement, but mostly just disappointment and cold sighs.


    Over and over again, I disappoint her. She is crushed by my silence.


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    The absence of words is due to the abundance of them. But I can never tell what she''ll like. I, who have known her all my life, am unable to comprehend her.


    She is simple, however. Even a stranger could tell a joke good enough to make her laugh. But I, who have known her only my whole life, cannot, for the life of me, say anything remotely agreeable.


    "It is impossible to get along with anyone in this world," I told myself years ago. And I was right. So I decided to say nothing beyond the most likable thing in the universe. And I say this to the only person in the world who wishes to hear me.


    But in fact, I don''t say anything. I cannot find anything to say to her.


    Why is that? I keep wondering. Surely, she hears many likable things from people every day. In fact, she probably hears more likable things than otherwise. And yet somehow, none of them—not a single one—has come from me. In all these years, in all these lives, not a single word that would please her.


    Do I even know her?


    She insists, time and time again, that I say it to her. I don''t know why she never gives up. By now, one would think I couldn’t speak. And yet, she stays. She waits and builds up hope, only for it to tumble down again.


    I cannot say what drives her. She says things that I like. And yet, I am unable to reciprocate her words.


    So then, I must assume she wills it this way.


    Perhaps this silence... yes, this silence. She clings to the very hopelessness, the absence of words. For if I were to say something truly likable, would it not become unlikable the moment it escaped my lips? As long as it stays hidden, it remains the likable idea she wishes to hear.


    It follows, then, that it is the echo of what is missing that compels her. Things left unsaid are always likable. And everything else—everything that crosses the threshold of my lips—becomes hideous and repulsive.


    So I stay silent, giving her false hope, holding onto her warm hands with my rough fingers, just so I can gaze into her eyes a little longer.