Between the two of us, curled together, there is the feeling of a large, 

empty space 

that was never there before. 

Everything feels off—-the bed, the blankets, the pillows, even the air in the room. 

Nothing has felt the same way that it did from the last time

but last time was weeks ago. 

 

We both want to address the space. 

But we say nothing. 

We don’t really know what to say. We don’t want to hurt each other

but in every way we are hurt. 

 

They say that actions speak louder than words, but we are actionless. 

Does that mean we are screaming? 

If we can’t find the words to speak

or the actions to take, 

are we silently, 

passively yelling at each other?

 

I feel his heartbeat. 

I’ve known him long enough to know the pace of his heart

the exact amount of beats per minute

like it is some sort of lyric to a song that I have on autorepeat in my head. 

But right now, it beats faster than it’s normal pitter patter. 

 

His heart, too, is silently yelling at me. 

 

We haven’t spoken but he knows. 

He knows

We both know.

 

The more I think through the silence

the more the space feels like dark cloud, looming over us

waiting for the most imperfect moment to rain on us

It’s daunting, the same way watching a tornado rip through a town is

We don’t know when it will rain, but we know it will pour soon.

 

And while we silently embrace the metaphorical gap between us, 

I can sense us both realizing that this moment is our last few seconds of happiness

with each other

before we let the thunder dance to its own beat

and change the entirety of the song I’ve been listening to

day in and day out through him. 

 

In that realization, I’ve discovered, for the first time, 

how comfortable I am with uncomfortable space

because I’m not sure if the space between us

or the cloud between us

will ever lighten again, and I should get used to always feeling this way

after the storm passes through. 

 

This piece has been on Though Catalog. You can view the published version here

 

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