The Space Between Us Novels & Stories

I scoffed, "Principle." His eyes were half closed but I knew he was waiting for me to say something. "Don't you preach against premarital sex? " His partially closed eyes flew open as he looked at me in alarm. "You are judging me." He then let out another short humourless laugh. "I am in no place to, " I replied, "But is that not why you are suddenly leaving? to create some distance between us " "I don't know what is wrong with you, " he said, relaxing once more on the wall.

The bond doesn’t like our little out burst. It never does when we fight. It reacts like distance is a wound, like space itself is an offense. Every step I put between us pulls faintly, unpleasant. It isn’t pain, exactly. Just pressure. Awareness. A reminder that my body is no longer entirely my own. Ugh, it’s the WORST. I let out a slow breath, the late afternoon air cool against my face, and force my shoulders to loosen, to drop, as if I can physically shrug off the invisible thread connecting us.

Three notes carried separately for decades by two people in different cities who had no idea the other was carrying them. Landing here. On a Thursday evening. In a small sitting room. He looked at her. She looked at him. And the space between them, which had been managed and measured and maintained and then quietly and stubbornly narrowed, became something that required no name to be real. It simply was. It had always been. From before either of them knew it was happening. “Twenty-three days,” she said softly. “Yes,” he said. “And then everything after,” she said. “Yes.”

He thought about what the answer was. He picked up the pen and wrote below the question, on the first page of the community centre notebook, in the space he had left: It knows the between-time has always needed a room. It knows the room must be entered without commitment, because the between-time is not a programme. It knows the between-time needs the field for breathing and the timber for warmth and the kitchen for the cup of tea made without being asked. It knows the corner holds the threshold person — the child and the adult and the person between the two. It knows the between-time is the village's most honest gathering because it happens without a reason. The room for the between-time is

The penthouse had never felt so vast and empty. Alex stood in the kitchen the next morning, pouring coffee he did not really want, the steam rising like a barrier between him and the man sitting at the island ten feet away. Rowan stared into his own mug, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped. Neither had spoken since the explosive argument the night before. The silence stretched like a living thing, thick and suffocating, pressing against the walls they had once torn down together.

That had happened naturally and neither of us had commented on it, the same way a great many things between us had been happening naturally and without comment for the last five days. The road was straight for the first several miles. Open territory. The kind of ground that had been pack adjacent for generations without being pack owned. Neutral land. The specific quality of space that has been between things for so long that between has become its identity. We drove in silence for approximately four minutes. Then I said: “I am not ready.” He looked at me.

Peaceful silence enveloped us. "Hey, Scar?" She whispered after a while. "Yes, Megan?" I smiled. "We'll always be sisters right? We'll always have each other's backs?" Her voice was fading, like she was drifting off to sleep. "Yes we will. Always." I whispered as my eyes closed. The world finally faded into blackness.

“I’m making it sound like how it feels.” He took another step forward, and this time I stepped back. The distance between us widened, deliberate. “I think we should take some time apart,” I said. His eyes snapped up. “What?” “Time,” I repeated. “Apart. You need space to collect your thoughts. To actually decide what you want instead of hovering in this gray area forever.” “You don’t mean that.” “I do,” I said. “When you know what you want, you can let me and Marianne know. But until then, I’m done dealing with your shit.”

Neither had I. And for the first time in a long while, the space between us didn’t feel like something waiting to be crossed. It felt like something was being respected.

What if it's not real and I let myself believe anyway? The silence between us lingered, delicate and heavy. I held her gaze and waited, forcing myself not to move, not to lean closer, not to do anything that might feel like pressure. This had to be her choice. Completely, entirely hers. No assumptions. No expectations. Just a question hanging in the space between us. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. A blush spread slowly across her cheeks, painting her skin that soft shade of pink I was quickly becoming addicted to. Then, almost shyly, she nodded.