32. The Spaces Between Us
People keep asking if C and I are still dating.
Every time I say no, it’s like tripping on the same crack in the sidewalk—tiny, but enough to jolt you. I smile, I make it sound like a fact without weight, but inside I feel the shift. I hate that I can no longer say, “Yeah, we’re together.” I hate that the truth now has a before and after.
Since the breakup, we’ve had these moments—small, ordinary, almost meaningless to anyone else—but they pull at me. Moments that feel like they belong to the before.
A couple weeks ago, I called him about some leftover sandwiches from camp. He could’ve just told me to drop them off another time. Instead, he offered to leave me his key. I told him I didn’t want him driving all that way just for me, but he came anyway. When we met, I was checking my car’s oil, and before I could even figure out the dipstick, he was there beside me, sleeves metaphorically rolled up, telling me what to do. I said I could figure it out. He gave me that look—half amusement, half knowing better—and I laughed, already caving. We drove to QuikTrip together, bought oil, and he filled it up for me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
We stood there talking about his life—how he might step back from seminary to focus on music, how my parents have been—and I was aware, the whole time, of how easy it was. How the air between us felt like home. When we finally said goodbye, he gave me a side hug that wasn’t really a side hug at all—my head tucked toward his neck, both of us leaning in longer than necessary. We talked again, said goodbye again, and that second hug lasted even longer. Fifteen seconds of quiet. Fifteen seconds of remembering.
Then there was the afternoon at Lazy Lab. He bought sandwich fixings and brought me one—with toasted bread and two slices of mango, because “whatever his heart desired” apparently meant caring enough to make it good. Later, when panic started pressing in on me, I left the building and sat in my car. He followed, saw me curled up, and slid into the passenger seat without a word. He rubbed my back and shoulders until the shaking started to ease. We stayed there for over an hour, just talking nonsense, seats reclined like we were lying next to each other in bed again. That long, warm side hug when he finally left was the kind of thing that doesn’t feel casual, no matter what name you give it.
And then, last week, Lord of the Rings night. Bible study, the whole group together. I thought I was fine—until I wasn’t. Panic clawed its way up, quick and sharp. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t make a show of it. He just moved, sat on the floor next to me, his hand warm on my leg, then my arm. Slow, steady circles. When my breathing stayed shallow, he pulled me closer, his cheek pressed against mine, his mouth by my ear.
And then I could hear him breathing. Deep, steady. For me. He wanted me to match him, to borrow his rhythm. I did.
That’s what brought me out of it—not logic, not space, but him. Close enough that I could feel the quiet calm in his body and let it pull me back into my own. When it passed, he didn’t leave. He stayed until he was sure. Walked me to my car, even though he didn’t have to.
I’ve been turning that over in my mind ever since. I keep thinking about that night, about all of it—how he knows before I say a word, how he steps in without asking if it’s “his place,” how he stays after the moment passes just to make sure. How he always makes sure.
And I don’t know how to let go of that. I don’t know how to stop wanting it. I don’t know how to stop wanting him.
It’s not just missing a relationship. It’s missing him in that role. Missing the way it felt to be known so well that he could see me unraveling before I’d even pulled a thread. And I think that’s what scares me the most—how easily he still reads me, and how much I still want to be read.
