The silent love

The Space Between Us

The autumn air had just begun to bite, the way it always did in late September, crisp and full of promises it would never keep. The leaves were changing color, and so, it seemed, were the emotions between Mina and Elias.

They had been best friends since they were eleven. That kind of friendship—the one built over a thousand inside jokes, long silences that didn’t feel awkward, and a bond stitched together by shared secrets—was hard to find. It was the sort of connection that people mistook for something else. And maybe, if either of them had been brave enough, it might have become something else.

But fear is a quiet jailer. And they both knew their feelings—whatever they were—had no safe place in the world they’d built together.

They sat on the rooftop of Mina’s apartment, legs dangling over the edge, the city lights flickering beneath them. Elias held a cup of tea in both hands, warming his fingers. Mina watched him, trying not to seem obvious about it.

"You ever think about just… disappearing for a while?" he asked.

Mina smiled, then looked back at the skyline. “Only every day.”

Elias glanced sideways. “You’d come back though, right?”

“Would you wait for me?” she asked, half-joking, half-terrified of the answer.

He didn’t laugh. “Always.”

There was a silence that followed—one of many in their years together—but this one sat heavier than most. It hummed with all the words neither of them had ever dared to say.

Mina sometimes wondered if Elias felt it too—that electric undercurrent when their hands brushed, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long, how her pulse sped up when he said her name in that quiet way only he could. But just as quickly, she would bury it.

They were friends. And friends didn’t risk everything on a maybe.

What if she said something, and it changed things? What if the friendship that had been her anchor since childhood shattered?

So, she smiled instead. She teased him about his terrible fashion choices, sent him voice notes of her cat purring, bought him his favorite snacks when he was too sad to ask for anything. All the little ways she could say “I love you” without saying it.

And Elias did the same.

He made her playlists that somehow always knew what she was feeling. He remembered her mom’s birthday. He walked her home when it rained. He knew when she needed silence and when she needed distraction. He gave her space, but never let her feel alone.

And yet, neither could cross the line between what they were and what they might be.

One evening, Elias was quiet—quieter than usual. They sat at their favorite café, the kind of place that felt like it existed only for them: tiny, filled with books, and smelling of cinnamon and old pages.

“I got the job,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

Mina blinked. “What job?”

“The one in Berlin.”

The words hit her like a slap—sudden, unexpected, sharp.

“You applied?”

“Months ago. Didn’t think I’d get it.” He laughed nervously. “But I did. They want me to start in November.”

That was six weeks away.

“Oh,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “That’s… great. That’s really great, Eli.”

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

Her heart did a strange flip. “Why not?”

Elias finally looked at her then, and it felt like the air between them crackled.

“Because of you.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. What was she supposed to say to that? Was this the moment everything broke open? Or would it be another almost-confession lost to fear?

“I don’t want to leave if it means losing us,” he said, voice low.

“You wouldn’t lose me,” she whispered.

“You say that now.”

“Because I mean it.”

But what she didn’t say was Don’t go. Stay. I love you.

And he didn’t say I’d stay, if you just asked.

The weeks passed, filled with more rooftop talks, more coffees, more long looks and aching silences. He didn’t bring up Berlin again, and she didn’t ask. But the deadline loomed like a cloud neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

One night, Mina dreamed that Elias kissed her.

It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. He just leaned in, gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he had always been waiting for her to be ready.

She woke up crying.

On his last night in the city, they met again on the rooftop. He had a duffel bag beside him and wore that soft hoodie she always stole when she was cold.

“I leave tomorrow,” he said.

“I know.”

He reached into his bag and handed her a letter.

“What’s this?”

“Something I was too much of a coward to say out loud.”

Her fingers trembled as she took it. “You want me to read it now?”

“No,” Elias said, standing up. “After I’m gone.”

He looked down at her like he wanted to memorize her face.

“I don’t know if I’ll come back,” he said.

Mina stood too. She reached out as if to touch him, then pulled her hand back at the last moment.

“I hope you do,” she said, voice cracking.

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers.

For one suspended second, the whole world stopped.

And then he turned and walked away.

She waited until he was on the plane.

Then she opened the letter.

It wasn’t long.

Mina,

I’ve loved you for years.

Maybe you knew. Maybe you didn’t. But I couldn’t say it—not when it might have ruined everything we had. I didn’t want to lose you. I still don’t.

If there was a way to stay without regretting it, I would.

If you love me too—if there's even a small part of you that feels the same—I hope someday you’ll tell me.

Until then, I’ll wait.

Love,

Eli

She cried for a long time.

Then, slowly, she folded the letter and placed it under her pillow.

She didn’t text him.

Didn’t call.

She didn’t know why.

Maybe she was still afraid.

Maybe she needed to grow into the kind of person who could say the words without shaking.

Years passed.

They spoke now and then—on birthdays, holidays, when the ache got too loud to ignore.

She dated. So did he.

But no one felt like home.

And one quiet spring morning, while walking through a park in a different city, she saw him again.

Older. Still him.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

And this time, maybe—just maybe—there would be no space between them.