The Space Between Us

It didn’t happen all at once. That’s the hardest part to explain. There was no big fight, no betrayal, no slamming doors or raised voices. Just a slow drift, like two people sharing the same space but living in different worlds. A gentle unraveling. Quiet. Almost kind.

At first, I didn’t notice.

On Monday mornings, he still kissed my forehead before work. We still shared coffee and toast, scrolling through our phones in easy silence. I thought it was the kind of silence that came from comfort, the kind you grow into. I didn’t notice when it shifted into something else—something cold. Something distant.

He still asked me how my day was, still listened when I answered. But his eyes didn’t light up the way they used to. His laugh, once unfiltered and warm, started sounding… careful. Polite. And I started wondering if maybe he was just going through something. Work stress. Mental fog. A bad week.

But the weeks turned into months. And the fog never lifted.

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I tried to reach him.

I brought home his favorite snacks. Left little notes in his bag like I used to when we first started dating. Suggested a weekend getaway, just the two of us.

He said, “That sounds nice,” and smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

He didn’t touch me as often. Not in a dramatic way, just… less. Less hand-holding. Less brushing fingers in the hallway. Less kisses for no reason.

One night, I watched him sit across from me at dinner and realized I couldn’t remember the last time he looked at me like he used to—with that quiet awe, like he couldn’t believe I was his.

I finally asked, “Are you okay?”

He nodded, “Yeah, just tired.”

That phrase became his favorite escape hatch. Just tired. When he went to bed early. When he forgot to ask about my day. When he stopped teasing me like he used to.

But I knew better. He wasn’t tired.

He was fading.

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We used to dance in the kitchen, even when there was no music. We’d laugh until we couldn’t breathe, tangled in each other and covered in flour or dish soap or whatever chaos we’d created.

Now he washed the dishes while I dried them. No jokes. No soap bubbles flicked into my hair. Just the sound of running water and a clock ticking somewhere in the other room.

I missed him. Desperately. The way you miss someone who’s sitting right next to you.

He still said, “I love you,” but it started sounding like muscle memory. Like something he felt he should say.

I said it back anyway, just in case it still reached some part of him.

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One night, I woke up to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the dark.

“You okay?” I whispered.

He hesitated. “Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Want to talk?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

But it was never nothing.

It was all the little things piled up, growing heavy. It was whatever was happening behind those distant eyes. It was everything he wasn’t saying.

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And then, one rainy Thursday evening, he told me.

He stood by the window, watching the water streak down the glass, hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this,” he said softly, “and there’s no good way.”

I knew.

I knew it before he said the words. I had seen it in the way he moved, the way he avoided, the way he grew quieter even when I leaned closer.

“I don’t know if I feel the same way anymore,” he said. “I’ve been trying. I swear, I’ve been trying.”

My heart shattered. I felt it. Like something breaking open in my chest.

“What changed?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“I don’t know. That’s the worst part. Nothing happened. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… I think I lost something along the way. And I can’t find it again.”

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He didn’t leave right away.

We gave each other space, pretending we could fix it. That time and effort and patience would reverse the drift. But it never did.

He started sleeping on the couch more often. Said it was just because he was waking up too much and didn’t want to disturb me. But we both knew better.

Then one day, his closet was empty. His toothbrush was gone. His note was short.

I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. You are so many good things. I just can’t be the one to hold them anymore.

I sat on the floor of our now-too-quiet apartment and stared at the mug he always used, still sitting by the sink. I touched the rim with my fingers and cried harder than I ever thought I could.

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People told me I’d be okay. That heartbreak fades. That it wasn’t my fault.

But they didn’t know how he used to look at me like I was the whole world. And they didn’t see the moment he stopped.

They didn’t feel the cold spot next to me in bed, or the way my hand still reached for his in the dark without thinking.

They didn’t understand that the worst kind of heartbreak isn’t the kind that explodes—it's the kind that fades.

The kind where someone slowly stops loving you, and you’re powerless to stop it.

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I still think about him when it rains.

Not always. But sometimes.

And when I do, I wonder if he remembers how it felt when we danced in the kitchen. If he ever looks back. If some part of him still wishes it had turned out differently.

I hope he found what he was looking for.

I hope I do too.

But sometimes, I still ache for the version of us that never stopped loving.