The Space Between Us | Napowrimo2025 | Day 2

She ran a fingertip down the cold windowpane,
following the raindrops like a habit—
the way she used to trace his spine
on slow Sunday mornings.
Behind her, he sat on the couch,
phone in hand,
thumb hovering over the keyboard,
as if words had weight.
As if they could break something
that was already cracking.

They used to talk about everything.
How mangoes tasted best when stolen from a neighbor’s tree,
how the world smelled different after the first rain,
how silence between them felt like comfort,
not distance.

Now, silence was the only language they spoke.

Once, they laughed at the same jokes,
raced each other up staircases,
argued over whether socks belonged in the laundry basket
or just near it.
Now, their arguments weren’t arguments at all.
Just quiet retreats.
Just a flick of the eyes,
a shift in posture,
a conversation that never really began.

Love didn’t leave.
It just got tired.
It curled up in the spaces between them,
waiting to be acknowledged,
waiting to be called back home.

He almost said it—
the thing sitting in his chest for weeks.
"Are we still us?"
But some questions don’t need answers.
Some questions only widen the distance.

Instead, he said, "Remember that bookstore in Goa?"
She hesitated, then smiled—
the kind of smile that still knew its way back.
"The one with the poetry book missing pages?"

"Yeah," he exhaled.
"It still felt complete."

She turned to look at him then,
like she was seeing him for the first time in a long time.
And maybe, just maybe,
they weren’t perfect.
Not seamless.
Not new.
But like an old book,
still carrying their fingerprints,
still worth reading.