Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay
A Cinematic Monologue by Hazel E. Guler
[Interior – A dimly lit room. The camera closes in slowly. The woman stands by the window, dusk painting her face with gentle shadows. She speaks softly, almost to herself.]
You know, there’s a story I never told out loud.
Not because it was a secret…
But because it never quite knew how to end.
He was–no, they were–a name I whispered to the stars once, certain they’d echo back.
But stars don’t echo. They burn. Quiet. Distant. Indifferent.
And still… I built a life inside a flicker.
Some days I convince myself it was all a mirage.
That I misread every warmth, every glance, every word.
But other days–
Other days, I wear the memory like perfume: invisible, persistent,
a scent only I remember.
It’s not love anymore.
Not quite longing either.
It’s something in between–a residue.
Of wanting to be seen. Of being almost seen.
But I'm still here.
Still walking, still writing, still weaving wonder from what was never fully mine.
Because maybe… just maybe…
the story was never about them at all.
Maybe it was always about how I learned to speak,
even when no one stayed to listen.
[Interior – A dimly lit room. The camera closes in slowly. The woman stands by the window, dusk painting her face with gentle shadows. She speaks softly, almost to herself.]
You know, there’s a story I never told out loud.
Not because it was a secret…
But because it never quite knew how to end.
He was–no, they were–a name I whispered to the stars once, certain they’d echo back.
But stars don’t echo. They burn. Quiet. Distant. Indifferent.
And still… I built a life inside a flicker.
Some days I convince myself it was all a mirage.
That I misread every warmth, every glance, every word.
But other days–
Other days, I wear the memory like perfume: invisible, persistent,
a scent only I remember.
It’s not love anymore.
Not quite longing either.
It’s something in between–a residue.
Of wanting to be seen. Of being almost seen.
But I'm still here.
Still walking, still writing, still weaving wonder from what was never fully mine.
Because maybe… just maybe…
the story was never about them at all.
Maybe it was always about how I learned to speak,
even when no one stayed to listen.
