The Spaces Between Us

The first time Ella met Kabeer, it was in a crowded university library, both reaching for the same worn-out copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude. Their fingers brushed awkwardly, and their eyes met. She smiled. He didn’t. He simply let go of the book and walked away.

She thought he was rude.

He thought she was sunshine—blinding and too bright for someone who had spent years learning to live in shadows.

But fate, in all its curious ways, kept throwing them together—at study sessions, group projects, late-night tea runs. Slowly, the silence between them began to warm. Not with noise, but with understanding. Kabeer wasn’t cold. He was cautious. And Ella, despite her laughter and bright clothes, understood caution all too well. She had scars of her own—quiet ones that didn’t bleed but weighed heavy.

They married young, against the usual advice. "Finish your careers first," some said. "Live a little before tying yourself down." But they didn’t feel tied down. They felt anchored.

The first few years were simple and full. Dinners on the floor of their tiny apartment. Handwritten notes on lunchboxes. Late-night arguments over which movie to watch that ended in cuddles instead of conclusions. They built dreams together—messy, beautiful, stubborn dreams.

But love, like all things alive, changes form.

By their seventh year, the shine had dulled. Not in a catastrophic way, but in the quiet erosion that happens when two people stop seeing each other and start simply passing each other.

Work grew busier. Bills piled higher. Ella miscarried their first baby at thirteen weeks, and neither of them really knew how to grieve together. Kabeer dove into work, always “at the office.” Ella retreated into volunteer projects and social events, smiling more than she felt.

They still loved each other. But their love had become more of a habit than a heartbeat.

They shared a bed, a mortgage, and calendars—but not conversations. And it wasn’t until one quiet night, eating takeout at opposite ends of the sofa, that Ella looked up and said what neither had dared to voice.

“Are we okay?”

Kabeer looked confused. Or maybe just tired.

“I guess,” he said. “Are we not?”

And that broke her more than if he’d said no.

Because “I guess” was worse than “I don’t know.” It was apathy in disguise. It meant he hadn’t even thought about it.

They didn’t fight that night. They didn’t cry. They simply continued eating in silence.

But the question lingered like a splinter in the heart.

In the weeks that followed, Ella noticed the little absences. How he no longer asked how her day was. How she no longer waited up when he worked late. How they hadn’t kissed like they meant it in months.

And yet, the dishes got washed. The rent got paid. The world kept spinning.

But inside their home, time had stalled.

It came to a head one afternoon when Ella returned from a friend’s baby shower and found Kabeer sitting on the balcony, sipping coffee in silence. He looked so far away, and she felt so unbearably alone—standing right in front of the man she’d promised forever to.

“I miss us,” she said, almost angrily.

Kabeer looked up. His eyes were tired but soft.

“I know,” he replied. “I do too.”

They didn’t speak for a long moment. The city buzzed below, indifferent.

Then he said something that surprised her.

“Do you think we need help?”

She nodded before her pride could object.

Counseling wasn’t magic. It didn’t fix them overnight. But it gave them language—new ways to say old feelings. It gave them structure, a space to unpack years of quiet disappointments and unspoken needs.

Ella learned that Kabeer didn’t know how to grieve openly. That his silence after the miscarriage wasn’t indifference—it was survival. And Kabeer learned that Ella didn’t need grand gestures—she just needed to be seen again.

They began doing something called “the daily five”—five uninterrupted minutes each day to talk, without devices, without distractions. At first, it was awkward. They stared at each other like strangers trying to remember who they used to be.

But slowly, the minutes stretched. The walls softened.

They started walking after dinner again. Sometimes talking. Sometimes not. But the silence was different now—intentional, not avoidant.

And one night, as they lay in bed after another ordinary day, Kabeer reached for her hand and whispered:

“Thank you for staying.”

Ella turned to face him, her eyes full.

“Thank you for noticing I was gone.”

Their marriage wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

They still disagreed—about politics, about parenting styles when their daughter arrived two years later, about whether pineapple belonged on pizza. But the difference now was this: they fought for each other, not against each other.

They learned that love isn’t loud. It doesn’t always shout across rooms or leap off screens. Sometimes, love is making tea at 6 a.m. without being asked. Sometimes it’s sitting in silence and knowing that silence is safe. Sometimes it’s choosing the same person, again and again, even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

Years later, on their twentieth anniversary, their daughter—now a curious teenager—asked them the secret to staying married.

Kabeer smiled and looked at Ella, then answered:

“It’s not a secret. It’s just... work. The kind that never ends. But also never stops being worth it.”

Ella added, “And choosing to love each other, not just when it’s easy, but when it’s quiet, and when it’s distant, and when it feels like everything around you says give up.”

Because in the spaces between us, love can still grow—if we’re brave enough to tend it.