The Unspoken Between Them by Anastasia Kononenko

He has no regrets —

No, of course he doesn’t.

The son of the dead owner of their jewellery workshop hasn't agreed to collaborate, and he has no regrets of telling him to fuck off.

He never gets his hopes up —

And hey, that’s a really good tactic. Don’t be so sceptical.

To be honest, he’d never have gotten into the thick of the art gallery — never have joined the show of sly looks and salty smirks — if it weren’t for someone else’s will. Not confirmed by anyone or anything. Just words drumming in his head. Just like that.

And deal with it, Sien.

“You’re used to digging in rocks, not people,” Norman said.

Sien turned a sharp glare on him.

“I’m so sick of your loud language.”

Norman stood with his shoulder against the doorway. There was no irony or sarcasm on his face — only stupid sympathy.

“You should listen to it. Chances it’s useful,” he said with a disgustingly cheerful smile. “We have our own workshop now. What do you need this guy for?”

“You have your workshop. I have my social networking,” Sien hissed, switching to his own language. And then he cut him off:

“You don’t know what we have in common.”

Norman managed to squander his pathetic optimism like beads rolling across the floor — and even seemed to resent it.

“No, Sien, I don’t know. Well, then. I wasn’t that close to his father.”

“Don’t you have anything clicking?”

“You’re being dramatic again,” Norman frowned. “And then you say I’m the one throwing around catchphrases.”

“You’re just too good at reading between the lines,” Sien said. “And you don’t notice that normal people” — he turned away, then looked back again — “can’t keep up with you.”

“There’s no need to be angry. You don’t tell me anything about him, so I don’t understand. And yet you’re demanding some kind of special treatment for him. Where did he even come from?”

Sien waved him off and slipped past him into the workshop, brushing his shoulder lightly on the way in.

The room greeted him with a pile of books on the floor, a cushion tossed onto a chair, a tripod with wobbly legs awkwardly lurking beside the table. A cardigan lay crumpled on the edge — thrown in a hurry and never touched since. Sien felt something similar in himself — half-done, fragile.

“I’m not mad at you,” he sighed, stepping over a sloppy stack of papers.

Norman immediately caught himself and hurried to gather the papers, holding them to his chest almost gently — but only managed to crumple them more. On the table in the center of the room, they fell into an even worse mess.

“Uh-huh. That’s not what I asked,” Norman said cheerfully again.

Sien looked at the whole scene with disdain.

“He didn’t come from,” he said after a pause, squeezing the words out. “It’s such a strange story that I won’t even try to tell it.”

Norman stared at him a few seconds longer with those honest eyes, then turned back to work.

Sometimes, Sien appreciated other people’s endeavors. Life was calmer — more confident — when someone was around, ready to say a clear, ringing stop at any moment.

Whether it was Sien himself, on the verge of something reckless, or obsessive thoughts taking his head by storm, that stop didn’t always need to be firm. The man didn’t have to be present all the time.

He just had to be.

He comes into your life, as if the door to your fragile world was always open for him. He sits at your imaginary kitchen table — in a funky, impudent way — and watches with a tenacious gaze:

“Well, what are you eating, my dear?”

This one? Throw it out.

This one? Leave it — it’s not appropriate.

And this? You’re not eating it. It’s eating you — from the inside out.

Norman’s "stop" was gentle, but stubborn. Almost delicate.

Such politeness was usually called caring. But Sien had long learned to ignore people — he wasn’t made for labels.

Norman was made for labels. For pure understanding.

What wasn’t he made for?

The role of the man who walks into your fragile life and says a firm stop with pressure.

But yes. Sien appreciated his efforts.

Sometimes he even surprised himself — how easily he opened up to this man.

It’s a... well, a person. A separate person, with his own head and the same bad thoughts, who sometimes should — yes, should — receive a firm, clear stop too.

Sien was only good at being rude and abrupt. But Norman never took offense.

And Sien had this childish feeling that he didn’t need to.

Something was scrabbling, worrying inside his soul.

Maybe someone was already telling him that. Telling him no. Asking him to stop.

But he wasn’t going to be jealous of Norman’s partner — because:

a) he never expected anything in the first place,

b) that’s not how it worked.

It wasn’t supposed to work like that.

But the way he behaved in front of Norman... it was murder: nervous, showing his sketches, discussing his future collection. Silent over the jadeite, not daring to touch it — because it wasn’t his. All the work on that ill-fated bracelet had been Norman’s. From the first sketch to the final soldering of the rose-gold chain. A delicate string of love on her wrist, Mika’s voice echoed in his head.

And this — believe it or not — was Norman’s best work.

Sien hadn’t touched it, only held the rough gem briefly and approved the cut. And Norman — that idiot — had waited breathlessly for permission.

He liked to listen. Really listen.

That was his defining trait — when he turned off his stupid habit of digging deeper and just looked. Looked at gestures, at facial expressions, and ignored the words.

Sien didn’t like it when people tried to dig into him.

It was strange, in a way, that Norman had never figured that out in all this time.

But maybe... not so strange, Sien thought, looking at the damn cup of leftover tea.

Sometimes it came in handy. Like now.

“I’ll be sure to tell you later,” he said as Norman showed him a large, emerald-studded hairpin.

Norman looked up, eyes full of interest and excitement.

“I just need to find a better way to tell the story.”

And you —

Try to hear me, not read me.