The Space between us.

Episode 7: The Things We Pretend Not to Know

They sat across from each other like strangers who shared a history they refused to name.

The café was loud—cutlery clinking against ceramic, chairs scraping the tiled floor, laughter spilling from a table behind them where someone was already tipsy on cheap wine. A barista called out orders with theatrical impatience. Somewhere near the door, a man argued loudly on the phone about money.

But between Tirzah and Elior, there was a vacuum.

The kind that swallowed words before they could even form.

They had chosen this place because it used to be easy. Because once, sitting across from each other with drinks between them had felt natural—like breathing. Because pretending familiarity was easier here than anywhere else.

It wasn’t working.

Tirzah noticed it first.

She always did.

Elior’s eyes wouldn’t stay on hers. They drifted to the window, to the table, to his phone when it buzzed with a notification he didn’t check. Not because he was shy. Elior had never been shy. It was because eye contact would mean acknowledgment, and acknowledgment would mean responsibility.

She shifted in her seat, fingers curling around the glass in front of her. The drink was already sweating, condensation sliding down like it wanted to escape her grip.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said.

A neutral sentence. Safe. Casual.

Cowardly.

Elior looked up, surprised she’d spoken at all. Then he smiled—small, controlled. The kind of smile people use when they want to end a conversation without being rude.

“I’ve just been busy.”

Lie.

Not a dramatic lie. Worse. A convenient one. The kind that didn’t ask to be challenged.

Tirzah nodded like she accepted it, even though something inside her recoiled. She hated how practiced they’d become at this—how good they were at pretending nothing was wrong when everything between them was misaligned. How they could sit inches apart and still feel worlds away.

There were so many things she wanted to say.

Why do you pull away every time I get close?

Why do you act like I’m too much when you’re the one who keeps reaching for me?

Why do you stay if you’re so afraid of being seen?

But she said none of it.

Instead, she picked up her spoon and stirred her drink long after the sugar had dissolved, watching the ice clink against glass like it was trying to escape. The sound was too loud. Everything felt too loud.

Elior watched her hands.

He always watched her hands when he didn’t want to look at her face.

They shook slightly—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for him. Tirzah had always been expressive. Her hands spoke even when she didn’t.

That’s when it hit him.

The realization he’d been avoiding for weeks. Maybe months.

She wasn’t asking for more.

She was tired of surviving on less.

“You know,” he said suddenly, breaking the fragile silence, “we don’t have to force anything.”

There it was.

The sentence that sounded mature but was actually a withdrawal. The sentence men used when they wanted credit for honesty without having to change.

Tirzah laughed.

Once.

Sharp.

“Funny,” she replied, setting the spoon down with deliberate calm. “I don’t remember forcing you to stay.”

Silence fell between them again, heavier this time.

This one landed.

Elior opened his mouth, then closed it. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected her to stop cushioning his exits. For the first time since they sat down, he looked at her properly—really looked—and saw what he’d been dodging all along.

Not anger.

Not desperation.

But resignation.

And resignation was dangerous.

It meant someone had already started leaving.

“I care about you,” he said, the words tumbling out like an apology he hoped would fix everything.

Too late.

Always too late.

Tirzah leaned back in her chair, finally meeting his eyes. Her expression was calm, but it scared him more than any argument ever had.

“I know,” she said. “That’s the problem.”

Elior frowned. “How is that a problem?”

“Because you care just enough to keep me here,” she replied quietly, “but never enough to meet me where I am.”

He felt that one crack open something inside him.

Memories rushed in uninvited—late-night conversations that went nowhere, promises that hovered but never landed, the way he always reached for her when he felt lonely and retreated when things started to feel real. He told himself he was protecting both of them. He told himself timing mattered. He told himself he wasn’t ready.

But sitting there, watching her pull away inch by inch, he knew the truth.

He liked the space between them.

It kept him safe.

Safe from expectation.

Safe from accountability.

Safe from having to choose.

Tirzah pushed her chair back and stood up. The movement was slow, deliberate, like she was afraid if she rushed it, she might lose her nerve. She slipped her bag over her shoulder, fingers tightening around the strap.

“I think this is where I stop pretending,” she said.

Elior’s chest tightened. “Pretending what?”

“That we’re just waiting for the right moment,” she replied. “We’re not. You’re hiding. And I’m shrinking.”

The words were soft, but they cut deep.

He wanted to defend himself. To explain. To list reasons—school, pressure, fear, circumstances. All the usual shields he’d polished over time. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t that simple.

But deep down, he knew it was.

He reached for her wrist instinctively, then stopped himself. He didn’t deserve that contact anymore.

“Tirzah,” he said, her name heavy on his tongue.

She paused, but she didn’t turn back.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said again. “That’s what makes it worse.”

She walked away before he could say anything else, weaving through tables, past laughter and noise and life continuing without them. He watched her disappear through the glass doors, the bell above them chiming softly like punctuation at the end of a sentence he’d been avoiding.

When she was gone, the café felt unbearably loud.

Elior sat there for a long time, staring at the empty chair across from him, replaying every moment he’d chosen comfort over courage. He felt the loss settle in—not sudden, not dramatic, but slow and heavy.

Not because she left.

But because she finally stopped reaching back.

And for the first time, the space between them didn’t feel safe at all.

It felt permanent.