In the Space Between Us

Chapter 4: The Almost Moment

Friday evenings were usually reserved for silence.

Ethan had a routine. He left the firm at 6:00 PM sharp, walked three blocks past the subway entrance, and ducked into Vinyl & Dust, a basement record store that smelled of cardboard and time. It was the kind of place where the owner, a man named Sol who looked like a retired wizard, ignored you unless you tried to steal something.

It was perfect.

Ethan was currently knee-deep in the "Jazz - Instrumental" crate, his fingers flipping through the plastic sleeves with a rhythmic thwip-thwip-thwip. He was looking for a specific pressing of a Bill Evans album, mostly because focusing on catalog numbers kept his brain from replaying the emptiness of his apartment.

“I bet you five dollars you’re judging everyone who buys a greatest hits album.”

Ethan’s hand froze mid-flip.

He looked up. Standing on the other side of the waist-high bin was Mika. She was wearing a denim jacket over a floral dress that looked a size too big, and her hands were buried deep in her pockets.

“I don’t judge,” Ethan said, straightening up. “I just… strongly evaluate.”

Mika grinned. It was a crooked, tired thing, but it lit up the dim aisle. “That’s just judging with a college degree, Ethan.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “This doesn’t seem like your scene. There are no napkins to fold. No hydrangeas.”

“Ouch. You think I’m one-dimensional,” she teased, moving around the bin to stand next to him. The aisle was narrow. Suddenly, the space between them wasn’t three feet or a table’s width. It was inches. “I actually need a gift. For my dad. It’s his birthday next week, and he loves ‘that old scratchy music,’ as he calls it.”

Ethan felt a strange tightness in his chest. It wasn’t the anxiety that usually plagued him. It was… awareness. The air around her felt warmer.

“What does he like?” Ethan asked, his voice sounding louder than he intended in the quiet shop.

“Frank Sinatra. Dean Martin. The classics.” She looked at the sea of records, overwhelmed. “I have no idea where to start. This place is organized by ‘Vibe’ and ‘Existential Dread’ rather than the alphabet.”

Ethan chuckled softly. “Come here. Vocalists are over in the corner.”

He moved to lead the way, but the aisle was tight. As he stepped past her, his arm brushed against hers. The contact was brief—friction of denim against wool—but it sent a jolt through him like static electricity. He pulled his arm back instinctively. Mika didn’t flinch, but he saw her breath hitch, just for a second.

They walked to the "Vocal Jazz" section. Ethan’s fingers went to work, confident and sure. This was a language he spoke fluently.

“Here,” he said, pulling out a pristine copy of In the Wee Small Hours. “Essential. If he likes Sinatra, he needs this. It’s the heartbreak album to end all heartbreak albums.”

Mika took the record, holding it with surprising care. She looked at the cover—Sinatra standing on a lonely street corner, bathed in blue light.

“Why is the good stuff always so sad?” she asked quietly.

Ethan looked at her. In the harsh fluorescent light of the shop, he could see a smudge of ink on her thumb and the faint shadow of exhaustion under her eyes.

“Because happy is easy,” Ethan said. “Sadness is complicated. It takes work to make sadness sound beautiful.”

Mika looked up from the album cover, her eyes locking onto his. The humor—the deflection she used like a shield—was gone. Her gaze was searching, stripping him down.

“You’re really good at this,” she whispered. “The whole… finding beauty in the blue stuff.”

“It’s just music, Mika.”

“Is it?”

She took a step closer. Just a half-step.

The air in the shop seemed to thicken. The background noise—the hum of the ventilation, the distant murmur of Sol arguing with a customer—faded into a dull buzz. All Ethan could hear was the beat of his own heart, hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

“I want to hear it,” she said. “Can we listen?”

Ethan nodded, unable to speak. He pointed to the listening station at the end of the counter. It was a cramped booth with a single turntable and a pair of heavy, leather-padded headphones.

He walked over, took the record from her, and set it up. His hands were shaking slightly as he lowered the needle. The soft pop and hiss of the vinyl crackled through the speakers before he switched the output to the headphones.

He held the headphones out to her.

“Go ahead,” he said.

Mika shook her head. “There’s only one pair. Share with me?”

It was a challenge. It was an invitation.

Ethan hesitated. His internal alarm system was blaring. Too close. Too intimate. Retreat.

But he didn’t retreat.

He stepped into the booth with her. It was tiny. Their shoulders were touching now. He could smell her—vanilla, rain, and the faint, dusty scent of the shop.

He lifted the headphones. He placed one cup over her left ear, and held the other cup to his own right ear.

They were tethered together by the plastic band. Their heads were tipped toward each other, their faces mere inches apart.

The music started. A mournful, sweeping orchestra, followed by Sinatra’s voice, low and smooth like velvet dragged over gravel.

When your sugar walks down the street…

Mika closed her eyes. Ethan watched her. He watched the way her eyelashes fluttered, the way her lips parted slightly as she breathed. She looked peaceful. She looked like she had finally put down the heavy things she was carrying.

He felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to kiss her.

It wasn't a lustful thought. It was a desperate need to bridge the final gap. To close the space between them and see if he would survive the collision.

He shifted his weight. His hand, which was still holding the headphone cup to his ear, drifted. His fingers grazed her cheek. Her skin was soft, warm.

Mika’s eyes snapped open.

She didn’t pull away. She looked at him, her pupils blown wide in the dim light. She stopped breathing. The music swirled around them, a soundtrack to a moment that was balancing on the edge of a knife.

Just do it, a voice in his head screamed. Be brave.

But then, another voice answered. Clara’s voice.

You’re a house with no doors.

If he kissed her, he would have to let her in. And if he let her in, she would see the mess. She would see the fear. And she would leave, just like everyone else.

The panic hit him cold and hard.

Ethan jerked back as if he’d been burned.

The headphones slipped, clattering onto the turntable with a loud thud that caused the needle to scratch violently across the vinyl.

The screech was agonizing.

Mika jumped, her hand flying to her chest. “Ethan?”

Ethan backed out of the booth, his chest heaving. He felt like he was suffocating. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Mika asked, her voice trembling. She looked confused, hurt. The vulnerability she had shown him was already retracting, hardening back into her shell.

“I can’t do this,” Ethan said, his voice rough. He wasn't talking about the music.

“We were just listening to a record,” Mika said, a defensive edge creeping into her tone. She crossed her arms, creating a physical barrier. “You don’t have to freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Ethan lied. He grabbed his coat from the counter. “I have to go. I forgot… I have work.”

“On a Friday night?” Mika’s eyes narrowed. “Ethan, wait.”

She reached out, her hand catching his sleeve.

He looked down at her hand. For a second, he wanted to cover it with his own. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to stay in the booth and listen to the whole damn album.

But the fear was stronger than the want.

He gently, but firmly, pulled his arm away.

“Enjoy the record, Mika,” he said quietly. “It’s a good gift.”

He turned and walked out of the shop.

He didn't look back. He couldn't.

He burst out onto the sidewalk, inhaling the smoggy city air like it was oxygen. He walked fast, putting distance between himself and the shop, between himself and the look on her face.

He had kept his walls standing. He was safe.

So why did he feel like he had just lost something irreplaceable?

Inside the shop, Mika stood alone in the listening booth. The record was spinning silently now, the needle lifted.

She touched her cheek where his fingers had grazed her skin. It still tingled.

“i***t,” she whispered to herself, her voice cracking. “You’re such an i***t, Mika.”

She picked up the headphones and placed them back on the hook. She bought the record, because she was stubborn, and because she wasn't going to let him ruin it for her.

But as she walked to the subway, the space between them felt different now. It wasn't just empty air anymore. It was charged with something volatile.

They had almost touched. And now, the distance felt twice as far.