The space between
525 Words
Spring turned to summer, and with it came change.
Marshel got an unexpected offer—an internship in New York with a publishing company she’d dreamed of working for since high school. It was competitive, prestigious, and only lasted three months. But it meant leaving right after finals… and leaving Kobe behind.
When she told him, they were sitting at their favorite spot under the old sycamore tree near the campus fountain. She said it quickly, like if she rushed through the words, it wouldn’t hurt as much.
“I got the internship,” she said. “In New York. I leave in two weeks.”
Kobe didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at her, the sketchpad in his lap forgotten, pencil paused in mid-line.
“That’s… amazing,” he said finally. “You deserve it.”
“But?” she asked softly, because she could hear the “but” in his voice.
He exhaled. “But I’ll miss you. A lot.”
“I’ll miss you too,” she said, reaching for his hand. “But this is something I have to do—for me. For my future.”
He nodded. “I know. I want you to go. I just… I don’t want to lose what we have.”
She squeezed his hand. “Then we won’t. Okay? We’ll call. Text. Video chat. And when I’m back, we’ll pick up right where we left off.”
But three months is a long time when your heart is somewhere else.
The first few weeks, they talked every night. Shared their days. Sent photos of their meals and city skylines. But then Marshel’s internship got busier, and Kobe’s summer job got stressful. The calls became shorter. The messages, more spaced out.
One night, after a missed call and an unanswered text, Kobe stared at his phone, wondering if time zones and distance were slowly unraveling something beautiful.
But the next morning, a letter arrived.
Not a text. Not an email.
A *letter*—handwritten, with a little sun drawn in the corner.
> Dear Kobe,
>
> I know things have been weird lately. I’ve been tired and overwhelmed and, honestly, a little scared. Scared that we’re fading.
>
> But here’s the thing: every time I see something beautiful—like the skyline at sunset or someone reading in a café—I think of you. You’re everywhere, even when you’re not.
>
> I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose *us*. So here’s my promise: no matter where we are, no matter how far… you’ll never be just a memory to me. You’re a part of me now.
>
> Yours,
> Marshel 🌻
Kobe read the letter three times. Then he picked up his sketchpad and started drawing again—for the first time in weeks.
When Marshel returned in August, he was waiting at the bus station with two things: his sketchbook, filled with pages she hadn’t seen, and a folded letter of his own.
No grand speeches. No dramatic music.
Just two people who chose each other—again.
TO BE CONTINUED...
- Writer
