THE SPACE BETWEEN WHAT WE SAY
1284 Words
RUTH'S POV
There’s a moment every morning — right before I open my eyes — where I forget that Raven is slipping away from me.
Right before I remember that she doesn’t text me back like she used to.
That she doesn’t sit with me in the cafeteria anymore unless I drag her.
That her laugh has gone from warm to… conditional.
Like she’s trying not to use too much of it.
And then I wake up, check my phone, and see nothing. No “good morning, chaos queen.” No weird sketch of a cat in a tutu. No sign that she remembered we were best friends before anyone knew our names.
Just a few cheerleader texts, an emoji from Eric, and my dad’s campaign manager reminding me I have a speaking role at the youth leadership event next week.
Because of course I do.
“Smile like it’s natural,” Coach says as we hold our pyramids. “Ruth, your face is stuck again.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. My cheeks are already cramping.
We hold the pose. I’m at the top. Literally and metaphorically. Head cheerleader. Poster girl. Mayor’s daughter. The one who makes it look easy.
Except it’s not. And lately, it feels like I’m holding everything together with bobby pins and dry shampoo.
After practice, I pretend to joke with the girls. I compliment Anna’s hair, laugh at Mia’s fake cough excuse, give Kaylee my “don’t start” look when she starts complaining about Coach’s playlist again. I do all the things I’m supposed to do.
But the whole time, I’m thinking about Raven.
Wondering if she noticed I waited for her at her locker again this morning. Wondering why she keeps looking like she’s somewhere else entirely.
Wondering if I’m the only one who sees her fading.
At lunch, I save her a seat. I always do.
She shows up ten minutes late. Hoodie too big. Earbuds in. Avoids eye contact.
I don’t say anything. Not yet.
She sits. Picks at her food. Doesn’t eat. Doesn’t speak unless spoken to.
“You finish the history notes?” I ask, trying to sound breezy.
“Yeah,” she says without looking up.
Silence again.
I know this dance. I've done it with other girls before. When they’re mad. When they’re sad. When they want me to chase them just to feel loved.
But Raven’s not playing hard to get.
She’s just… gone.
Somewhere behind her own eyes.
Eric texts me from two tables away:
> “U look stressed. Want to come over later?”
I don’t answer.
Not because I’m mad at him — I’m just tired.
Tired of pretending he gets it. Tired of pretending I care about his stress over math class when my best friend is unraveling two feet away from me.
That night, I try to talk to Dad.
“I think something’s wrong with Raven,” I say while he types.
“Is she okay at school?” he asks, still typing.
“I mean… I don’t know. She doesn’t talk much anymore.”
He finally looks up. “You’re not responsible for her mental health, Ruth. You’re a good friend, but don’t carry other people’s darkness.”
I nod like that makes sense.
But it doesn’t.
Because what am I supposed to do? Watch her fall apart and just hope she lands softly?
I text her around 10 p.m.
No response..... very unusual
I don’t cry often. It’s kind of a rule.
My dad always says, “In public life, perception is reality.”
Translation: if people see you breaking, they assume you’re broken.
So I don’t cry. I smile. I fix things. I help people. I control the narrative. I breathe in pain and breathe out charm. That’s my thing.
But today, I cry in the school bathroom between third and fourth period. Just for a minute. Just long enough to smear my eyeliner.
I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder when my reflection stopped looking like me.
I wipe my eyes, pull my shoulders back, and walk out like nothing happened.
I find Raven sitting under the staircase at the far end of the quad during lunch.
Of course she’s here. It’s where she used to hide in freshman year when she was sketching characters for that comic she never finished.
Her knees are pulled to her chest. Her hair’s falling out of her bun. She’s wearing that same hoodie — the one that could swallow her whole if it wanted to.
I sit next to her without asking. I don’t say anything right away. I just sit. That’s how it used to be between us — we didn’t have to talk to be heard.
But now, it’s like we’re speaking different languages.
“I’ve been looking for you,” I say finally.
She shrugs. “I figured.”
That’s it. No apology. No excuse. Just that.
And somehow, it hurts more than a full rejection.
“Did I do something?” I ask.
She flinches, barely. “No.”
“Then why won’t you talk to me?” My voice is too sharp, and I hate myself for it.
She looks away. “It’s not you. It’s just… everything.”
Which tells me nothing. And everything.
I look down at the space between our shoes. She’s drawn something on her Converse in black pen — a tiny, crooked heart. It’s already fading.
“I miss you,” I say, quieter now.
She finally looks at me. And for the first time in weeks, I see her.
Not the quiet, ghost-version of her.
Her.
And she looks scared. Tired. Like she’s holding on to herself by a thread.
“I’m still here,” she says softly.
But we both know that’s not true.
That night, I sit in my room and go through old photos of us.
Us in eighth grade with matching glitter shirts.
Us in sophomore year with fake bruises after trying to skateboard.
Us laughing so hard in her bedroom that we couldn’t breathe.
Now I don’t even know if I’d recognize her laugh.
Or if she’d recognize mine.
At practice the next day, I mess up my count during a lift.
Coach yells. The girls stare. I apologize and try again.
But my mind is still under that staircase. Sitting next to a girl who used to be my person. Who still is. Kind of.
And all I can think is: what if she’s slipping away for real?
What if one day she stops showing up entirely?
What if I wasn’t enough to hold her?
On Friday, I try again.
I wait outside her last class. She sees me and almost turns the other way. But she doesn’t. She walks toward me, slow and tired, like she’s expecting something bad.
“We don’t have to talk,” I say. “Let’s just walk.”
She nods.
We walk.
Side by side. Not speaking. Not touching. Just sharing space.
And somehow, it’s everything.
---
I want to tell her that I’m scared too. That I’m exhausted from being strong. That I hate the perfect version of myself everyone wants me to be.
I want to tell her that Eric kissed me last week and I didn’t feel a thing. That my dad wants me to speak at some charity gala next month and I want to disappear instead.
I want to say, You’re not the only one who’s falling apart.
But I don’t.
Because Raven looks like she’s one word away from breaking.
So I stay silent.
And maybe that’s the problem with us.
We both got too good at not saying anything.
- Writer
