The Blurry Little Things
Part 1
Jennette sat in the front row of an empty theatre.
No movie played—just a pale white light glowing across the screen, wide and waiting.
She didn’t mind sitting that close. Too close. Too exposed.
That was where she always seemed to end up.
All around her, scattered on the floor, were blurry little things.
Not soft. Not delicate. Gory. Grotesque.
Left behind by men who had taken and never given back, who twisted tenderness until it bled.
She had learned to step around them just to sit there.
She had trained herself not to flinch.
Then—Sage came in.
He moved carefully, quietly, as though afraid to startle the silence.
One step, one row, one breath at a time.
He didn’t pretend not to see the floor.
He didn’t offer to clean it up.
He simply sat beside her and began handing her something.
Small. Blurry. Weird.
She took them cautiously, expecting decay or harm.
But these weren’t like the things on the floor. They didn’t reek. They didn’t sting.
They were strange, awkward, imperfect—but gentle.
Over time, Jennette realized they were relief.
A laugh when she least expected it.
A joke that disarmed her.
A message that felt like a hand on her shoulder.
One day, she picked up a blurry thing of her own and handed it back.
She expected Sage to recoil, to flinch away.
He didn’t. He took it easily, as if he’d been waiting.
Connection, she learned, didn’t stop when things got messy.
It kept walking—quietly, fearlessly.
And for a long time, that was enough. Until the day she wondered what lay beyond the theatre's single, glowing room.
⸻
The Golden Gift
(Part II)
Later, Jennette rose from the theatre, leaving the blurry little things behind.
She walked toward the bar in the same building—drawn there, somehow knowing she’d find him.
And there he was. Conrad.
Not in the same seat where they had first met, but close enough that memory stirred.
Jennette reached into her pocket and pulled out a small golden gift, bright and heavy in her hand.
His eyes widened. His chest lifted slightly as he leaned closer, almost shocked.
He studied it, careful, deliberate, as though measuring its weight against his own silence.
Then he slipped it into his pocket and handed her one of his own.
It was blurry, yet clearer than anything she’d ever received before—attentive, real, fully there.
She took it. Not smiling, but lighter in her chest.
As she turned to leave, he looked up again—just once—his expression soft, grateful, knowing.
It wasn’t loud or showy.
It was quiet. Intentional. Understanding.
A gift given and received.
Not for attention, not for performance—
but for recognition.
⸻
The Theatre Reprise
(Part 3)
Jennette returned to the theatre.
The rows were empty again.
Sage sat there, distracted, as if trying to rewind something that was already gone.
Her smile had already faded by the time she approached.
She cleared her throat—loud enough for him to hear.
A signal. A boundary.
He looked up, startled. Then, almost sadly, he stood and left.
Jennette sank into her seat.
For the first time, the theatre didn’t feel haunted.
She felt the calm of having spoken without words—
of having said everything she needed to by simply existing in the silence.
The white light flickered softly across her face.
Peace. Finally.
Then—
a knock.
Soft at first, then sharper.
She stood, heart steady but curious, and walked toward the door.
End.