The Distance Between Our Hands

Chapter 1: The Uncrossable Inches

In the dim glow of the Eldridge Hollow train station, on a fog-chilled evening in January 2026, Nora Vale waited on platform 3 for the 7:42 to Boston. She was 31, coat buttoned to the throat, scarf wound twice around her neck, gloved hands buried deep in her pockets. The platform was nearly empty—just an elderly couple sharing a thermos and a teenage boy with headphones. And him.

Elias Crowe stood ten feet away, leaning against a pillar, reading a paperback under the weak overhead light. He hadn’t seen her yet. Or if he had, he was pretending not to.

Nora had known Elias since they were fifteen—art class partners forced together by alphabetical seating. He drew meticulous cityscapes; she painted storms. They had shared earbuds, secrets, and one almost-kiss behind the gymnasium the night of junior prom. Almost. Because at the last second, Nora had turned her head, and Elias had stepped back, and the space between their lips became the space between everything else.

They had graduated, drifted to different colleges, lost touch. Life happened. Nora became a graphic designer in Hartford. Elias restored old books in a quiet shop on the coast. They hadn’t spoken in thirteen years.

Until tonight.

The train announcement crackled overhead. Nora shifted her weight, and her boot scuffed the concrete. Elias looked up. Their eyes met across the platform, and for a moment the fog seemed to pause.

He closed his book slowly. She lifted one hand in a small, uncertain wave.

He nodded. Smiled—small, careful.

And then they stood there, ten feet apart, while the train lights appeared in the distance.

Love lives in the space we’re afraid to cross.

Chapter 2: The Almosts

The train was half-empty. Nora took a window seat near the back. Elias boarded the same car, hesitated in the aisle, then sat three rows ahead, across from her but not beside her. Close enough to speak. Far enough to pretend they weren’t speaking.

She watched the back of his head—dark hair longer now, curling at the collar. He opened his book again, but she noticed he wasn’t turning pages.

At the first stop, the elderly couple disembarked. The teenager followed at the next. Soon it was just them and the rhythmic clatter of wheels on track.

Nora pulled off her gloves, flexed her fingers. The air between their seats felt charged, like the moment before lightning.

Elias turned. “Hi, Nora.”

His voice was deeper than she remembered, but the cadence was the same.

“Hi, Elias.”

A pause. The train swayed.

“You’re going to Boston?” he asked.

“Client meeting tomorrow. You?”

“Book fair. Rare editions.”

Another silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly. More like a held breath.

He shifted to the empty seat across the aisle from her—closer now, but still not beside her. “It’s been a long time.”

“Thirteen years,” she said. “Give or take.”

He smiled faintly. “You look the same.”

“You don’t. In a good way.”

He laughed quietly. “Thanks, I think.”

The train lights flickered. Outside, snow began to fall, soft and soundless against the windows.

Nora’s heart beat too fast. She wanted to ask everything—Are you happy? Do you ever think about that night? Did you ever wish we’d been braver?—but the questions stuck behind her teeth.

Instead she said, “Still restoring books?”

“Still painting storms?”

They both smiled at the echo of their teenage selves.

Chapter 3: The Space Between

The train slowed for a signal. Red light ahead. They sat in the sudden stillness.

Elias closed his book entirely. “I kept one of your sketches,” he said. “The thunderstorm over the harbor. It’s in my shop.”

Nora’s breath caught. “I still have the cityscape you drew of Eldridge Hollow at dusk. The one with the streetlamp glow.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and the distance between their seats felt both infinite and paper-thin.

“I regretted it,” he said quietly. “Not crossing that space. Behind the gym.”

Nora’s throat tightened. “Me too.”

The train lurched forward again.

“Why didn’t we?” she asked.

He considered. “Fear, I think. Of ruining what we had. Of it not being enough. Of it being everything.”

She nodded. “And now?”

“Now,” he said, “I’m tired of being afraid of the distance.”

He moved—slowly, deliberately—into the seat beside her. Not touching. Just there. The space between their hands on the armrest was maybe four inches.

Nora’s pulse thundered in her ears.

Outside, snow blurred the world into white silence.

Chapter 4: The Crossing

The train announcement: “Next stop, Boston Back Bay.”

Almost there.

Elias turned to her. “I have to change trains in Boston. Heading north after the fair.”

Nora swallowed. “I’m staying overnight. Meeting’s at nine.”

He nodded. Looked at their hands—so close. His fingers uncurled slightly, palm up on the armrest. An invitation. A question.

Nora stared at it. Thirteen years of almosts pressed into this moment.

Love lives in the space we’re afraid to cross.

She slipped off her glove. Her hand trembled as she moved it—inch by inch—until her fingertips brushed his.

Warm. Real.

He closed the distance, threading their fingers together like it was the simplest thing in the world.

The train pulled into the station. Doors opened. Passengers moved.

They stayed seated, hands clasped, watching snow fall beyond the window.

“Coffee?” he asked. “Tomorrow morning. Before your meeting.”

She squeezed his hand. “I’d like that.”

The conductor called “All aboard!” for the final time.

They stood together, hands still linked, and stepped off the train into the cold Boston night.

The distance between their hands was gone.

And in its place—something new, something brave—was just beginning.