: The Space Between Us
Ariel learned very early in life that silence could be loud.
It sat heavy in her chest as she stared at her phone, the screen lighting up her face in the dark. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the same unread thoughts looping in her head like a broken song.
She placed the phone face-down on the bed and exhaled slowly.
Kai hadn't replied in two days.
Two days shouldn't hurt this much, she told herself. People get busy. People need space. People don't owe you access to them every second of the day.
But Kai had never been the disappearing type.
He was consistent. Steady. The kind of presence that didn't demand attention but somehow always had it. Which made this silence feel intentional. Deliberate. Like a door quietly closing without a slam.
Ariel rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow to her chest. She hated how easily her mind betrayed her—how it replayed every conversation, every laugh, every almost-confession, searching for the exact moment things shifted.
Maybe it was the night she told him she was scared of depending on anyone.
Or the way he went quiet when she asked about his past.
Or maybe… nothing happened at all.
That was the worst part. Not knowing.
The next morning, she woke up determined to reclaim herself. No more staring at her phone like it held her heartbeat. No more waiting.
She showered, dressed with intention, and tied her hair back like she had somewhere important to be—even if that place was just forward.
By noon, she was at the café where she and Kai had first talked for hours over cold coffee and unfinished dreams. She hadn't planned to come here. Her feet just… brought her.
The bell above the door chimed softly.
And there he was.
Kai sat at their old table by the window, fingers wrapped around a cup he clearly hadn't touched. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight like he was holding something back. He looked up—and froze.
Their eyes met.
For a second, the world narrowed to the space between them.
"Ariel," he said, standing up too fast. "I—"
She raised a hand, stopping him. "Can we not do this like it's an accident?"
His expression faltered. "I wasn't avoiding you."
She let out a short laugh. "Kai, you disappeared."
"I needed time."
"That's not the same thing as silence."
He swallowed. "I didn't want to say the wrong thing."
"So you said nothing?" Her voice wasn't sharp, but it carried weight. "Do you know what silence sounds like to someone who's been left before?"
That landed.
Kai looked away, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm sorry."
She studied him—really studied him. The exhaustion in his eyes. The way he seemed older than his age in moments like this.
"Talk to me," she said softly. "Or let me go. But don't keep me stuck in the middle."
He pulled out the chair across from him. "Please. Sit."
She hesitated, then sat.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Outside, life moved on—cars passing, people laughing, the world proving it didn't pause for unresolved feelings.
"I've been running from my past," Kai finally said. "Not just you. Everyone."
Ariel's fingers tightened around her cup.
"My father," he continued, voice low, "left when I was sixteen. No goodbye. No explanation. Just… gone. I spent years convincing myself it didn't affect me. That I was fine."
He laughed bitterly. "Turns out, I'm not."
Ariel listened, heart aching.
"When you started to matter," he said, eyes lifting to meet hers, "I panicked. Because losing you would hurt more than pretending I never needed anyone."
Her throat burned. "So you pushed me away first."
"Yes."
She nodded slowly, processing. Understanding didn't erase the pain, but it softened the edges.
"I don't need perfection," Ariel said. "I just need honesty. Even when it's messy."
"I don't know how to love without fear," he admitted.
She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. "Neither do I. But I'm tired of running."
Their hands stayed there, fragile and real.
Kai exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath for years. "I don't want to lose you."
"Then don't disappear," she said gently. "Stay. Even when it's hard."
He nodded. "I will."
It wasn't a promise wrapped in certainty. It was a promise wrapped in effort—and somehow, that felt more real.
As they left the café together, the air between them still carried questions. But for the first time in days, Ariel felt lighter.
Love, she realized, wasn't about having all the answers.
Sometimes, it was just choosing to stay in the conversation.
And for now, that was enough.