In the Space Between Us

The bass in the floorboards felt less like music and more like a warning. Ethan Reyes stood near the kitchen island, nursing a drink he hadn’t taken a sip of in twenty minutes. It was a craft beer, something with a pretentious label involving hops and mountains, chosen mostly because holding it gave him an excuse not to talk to anyone. “You’re doing it again,” a voice buzzed in his ear. Ethan didn't turn. He knew exactly what Jasper Morales looked like right now: grin wide enough to c***k a mirror, eyebrows wagging like windshield wipers. “Doing what?” Ethan muttered, swirling the amber liquid. “The ‘brooding poet in a storm’ thing. The ‘I am a lone wolf and this party is beneath my sorrow’ thing.” Jasper leaned his back against the counter, surveying the crowded living room of the loft apartment. “Dude, it’s Saturday. We’re at a party. There is free alcohol. There are people here who are not us. Try to look like you aren’t planning a prison break.” Ethan finally looked at his best friend. Jasper was wearing a shirt with a print that was arguably too loud for indoors—flamingos, or maybe shrimp, it was hard to tell in the strobe light. “I’m not brooding,” Ethan said, though he knew it was a lie. “I’m observing.” “Observing what? The structural integrity of the drywall?” Jasper snorted. He nudged Ethan’s shoulder. “Look, I know it’s been a rough year. But the ‘Year of the Hermit’ is officially over. You promised Luna you’d get out more. You promised me you’d stop treating your apartment like a bunker.” Ethan sighed, the sound lost under the sudden roar of laughter from a group near the sofa. Jasper was right, which was the annoying part. It had been fourteen months since the breakup—since the entire architecture of his life had collapsed in a single afternoon—and he was still picking through the rubble, trying to decide what was worth keeping. “I’m out, aren’t I?” Ethan countered. “I am physically present.” “Physically, yes. Mentally, you’re currently re-watching old movies in your head.” Jasper scanned the room and pointed subtly with his chin. “See that girl by the bookshelf? The one in the green dress? She’s looked at you twice. Go talk to her.” Ethan glanced over. The girl was pretty, laughing at something a guy in a vest was saying. She looked happy. Uncomplicated. “Not interested,” Ethan said, turning back to his beer. “You’re hopeless,” Jasper groaned, pushing off the counter. “I’m going to find the food. If you’re not talking to a human female by the time I get back, I’m telling everyone you write fanfiction about taxes.” Ethan watched him disappear into the crush of bodies. He felt a sudden, sharp spike of exhaustion. It wasn’t the noise or the people; it was the effort of pretending he belonged here. He felt like a ghost haunting the living, visible but not quite solid. He needed air. He navigated the room like a soldier moving through a minefield, dodging flailing arms and spilled drinks. He spotted the sliding glass door at the far end of the room, partially obscured by a fake palm tree. It was the escape hatch. He slipped through the gap in the curtains and slid the door open, the rush of cool night air hitting his face like a slap. The balcony was narrow, a sliver of concrete overlooking the city sprawl. It was quieter here, the party muffled behind the glass. He walked to the railing, gripping the cold metal. Below, the city was a grid of electric veins—headlights streaming, windows glowing. Millions of people, all living lives that had nothing to do with him. He took a deep breath, the tightness in his chest loosening just a fraction. Then the door slid open again. Ethan stiffened, bracing himself for Jasper’s return or, worse, a stranger looking for a light. “Oh,” a voice said. “Occupied.” Ethan turned. It wasn’t Jasper. Standing in the doorway, caught halfway between inside and outside, was a woman. She was holding a red plastic cup with both hands, clutching it like it was the only solid thing in the world. She wore a simple black dress, the kind that looked effortless but probably wasn't, and her hair was pulled back in a loose, messy clip. “It’s a public balcony,” Ethan said, his voice rusty. He shifted slightly to the left. “Plenty of room.” She hesitated. For a second, he thought she would turn around and go back inside. He saw a flicker of debate in her eyes—a quick calculation of risk versus reward. The noise from the party surged out through the open door, a chaotic wave of shouting and music. She stepped out and slid the door shut behind her. The silence returned, instant and heavy. “Thanks,” she said, moving to the railing but keeping a distinct distance from him. At least three feet. The safety zone. “It was getting a little… much in there.” “Loud,” Ethan agreed. “Loud is an understatement. It’s like being inside a speaker cabinet.” She took a sip of her drink, grimacing slightly. “Also, I’m pretty sure the guy near the stereo is trying to explain cryptocurrency to a potted plant. I needed to evacuate before I started heckling him.” Ethan felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “The plant probably understands the market better than he does.” She looked at him then, really looked at him. Her eyes were dark, intelligent, and guarded. There was a humor there, but it was layered over something else. Something tired. “I’m Mika,” she said. “Ethan.” “Well, Ethan,” she said, turning to look out at the skyline. “Are you hiding, or just enjoying the pollution?” “A bit of both,” he said. “Hiding seems to be the primary objective.” “Me too.” She sighed, her shoulders dropping an inch. “My best friend, Chloe, is on a mission tonight. Her goal is to get me to ‘mingle.’ I hate the word mingle. It sounds like something you do with salad ingredients.” “My friend Jasper is the same,” Ethan said, surprised by his own willingness to share. “He thinks my social life is a medical emergency that needs immediate triage.” Mika laughed. It was a genuine sound, low and raspy, not the high-pitched performance laugh he heard inside. “Friends mean well. They just don’t understand that sometimes you just want to… be.” “Exactly.” They fell silent. It wasn’t the awkward silence of an elevator ride; it was a companionable pause. They were two refugees from the same war, finding a momentary truce on a concrete ledge. Ethan stole a glance at her profile. The city lights cast shadows across her face, highlighting the curve of her nose and the line of her jaw. She looked contemplative, almost sad. He wondered what she was thinking about. He wondered if she, too, had a ghost she was trying to outrun. “Do you ever feel like…” Mika started, then stopped. She shook her head. “Never mind. That’s too deep for a balcony conversation with a stranger.” Ethan turned fully toward her. “Try me. I’m not really in the mood for small talk anyway.” Mika turned the plastic cup in her hands, watching the red surface catch the light. “I was going to say… do you ever feel like everyone else got a manual on how to be a person, and you missed the distribution day?” Ethan felt a thud of recognition in his chest. “Yeah. I know that feeling.” “It’s like…” She gestured vaguely at the glass door behind them. “In there, everyone is so sure. They know what to say, how to stand, how to laugh at the right moments. And I’m just here, manually operating my own face, hoping I don’t glitch.” “I think most of them are faking it,” Ethan said softly. “They’re just better actors.” “Maybe.” She looked at him, her gaze direct. “Are you faking it?” Ethan paused. The question was simple, but the answer felt dangerous. “I stopped faking it a while ago. That’s why I’m out here.” “And that’s why you look like you’re attending a funeral?” she teased gently. “Is it that obvious?” “A little. You have ‘tragic backstory’ written all over your posture.” Ethan huffed a laugh. “I’ll work on that.” “Don’t,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur. “It’s honest. Honest is rare.” She shifted her weight, and for a moment, the distance between them felt charged. It wasn't s****l, exactly—though she was beautiful—it was the tension of recognition. Like two radios tuning into the same frequency after years of static. “You know,” Mika said, looking back at the view. “My dad used to say that distance isn’t about miles. You can be in the same room as someone and be lightyears away.” “And you can be miles apart and feel close?” Ethan asked. “Ideally,” she said. A shadow crossed her face, quick and sharp. “But usually, the space just… grows. You blink, and suddenly you can’t reach the other person anymore. Even if they’re standing right there.” Ethan looked at the gap between them on the railing. Three feet of empty air. It seemed insignificant, yet it felt like a boundary line. “I think,” Ethan said slowly, carefully choosing his words, “that the space is where the fear lives. We keep the distance because it’s safe. If you don’t bridge the gap, you can’t fall.” Mika looked up at him, her eyes wide. The banter was gone. She looked exposed. “But if you don’t bridge the gap,” she whispered, “you’re just alone.” The air between them seemed to thin. Ethan had the sudden, irrational urge to reach out and touch her hand, just to prove that the space could be crossed. To prove that he wasn't stuck on his island forever. The glass door slid open with a jarring crash. “Mika! There you are!” The spell broke. It shattered so violently Ethan almost flinched. A girl with bright pink highlights and a drink in each hand stumbled onto the balcony. This had to be Chloe. She was a whirlwind of energy and perfume. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! They’re playing that song—the one we hate but also love? You have to come dance.” Chloe stopped, noticing Ethan for the first time. She looked him up and down with exaggerated appraisal. “Oh. Hello. Who is this? Are we interrupting a moment? Should I leave?” Mika blinked, the vulnerability vanishing behind a mask of amusement instantly. She stepped back from the railing, widening the physical distance between her and Ethan. “No moment,” Mika said, her voice bright and sturdy again. “Chloe, this is Ethan. Ethan, this is the force of nature known as Chloe.” “Hi, Ethan,” Chloe grinned. “You look tall. Are you tall? It’s dark.” “Hello,” Ethan said, stepping back into the shadows. The connection was severed. The static was back. “Come on, Meek,” Chloe said, grabbing Mika’s arm. “Noah is looking for you, too. He’s doing that thing where he tries to juggle ice cubes.” Mika stiffened slightly at the name, but she let Chloe pull her toward the door. She paused at the threshold and looked back at Ethan. “It was nice meeting you, Ethan,” she said. “You too, Mika.” She hesitated, as if she wanted to add something—a postscript to their conversation, a way to keep the line open. But Chloe tugged her arm, and the moment passed. “Save me from the ice juggling,” Mika joked, but her eyes remained serious for one second longer than necessary. Then she was gone. The glass door slid shut, muting the music once again. Ethan was alone on the balcony. He looked at the spot where she had been standing. Her plastic cup was sitting on the railing, half-full, forgotten. A smudge of red lipstick stained the rim. He picked it up, intending to throw it away, but stopped. He held the cold plastic in his hand, looking out at the city that suddenly seemed a little less like a grid of strangers and a little more like a place where things could happen. Noah. The name Chloe had dropped hung in the air like a bad smell. A boyfriend? An ex? A complication. Ethan set the cup down. He didn't know why he cared. He didn't know her. They had talked for five minutes about noise and emptiness. It meant nothing. But as he stood there, letting the cold seep back into his bones, he realized something had shifted. The ache in his chest—the one that had been there for fourteen months—felt different. It wasn't gone. But for the first time, it felt like something he might be able to survive. He turned back to the door. He wasn't ready to dance. He wasn't ready to "mingle." But he was ready to go back inside. Because for the first time in a long time, he wanted to see who else was in the room.