THE SPACE BETWEEN US

Chapter 14

Trace's POV

The familiar creak of the front door greets me as I carefully slip inside, mindful not to make any noise. The house is dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of a few nightlights, as if the world is whispering in the background. I tread softly, my footsteps barely a murmur against the floorboards. Halfway to my room, I spot her—an older woman, a figure who’s always been there for me.

"Good evening," I say, my voice low and calm. She looks up from the book she's reading, her expression warm, but there's a hint of worry in her eyes. She always senses when something is off, but tonight I can't let her in on the storm swirling inside me. Not now.

"Good evening, Trace," she replies softly, her smile gentle. I nod, offering a brief smile in return, before I continue my path to the sanctuary of my room.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it for a moment, exhaling the tension that’s been building all day. I quickly change out of my work clothes, trading the stiff fabric for something more comfortable—soft, worn cotton that feels like a second skin. I wash my face, hoping the cool water will chase away the thoughts that have been buzzing in my head like an incessant hum, but it doesn’t. It only sharpens them.

I throw myself onto the bed, my body sinking into the mattress, but my mind refuses to settle. The silence of the night only amplifies everything. Every emotion. Every thought. I replay the scenes of today—how Grace looked when she first saw me this morning, the way her voice wavered when she spoke about the coding class, her eyes that held a mix of exhaustion and something deeper, something I couldn't fully decipher. And then, there was that moment. That damn text from Leo. That look in her eyes when she read it, like she was miles away from me.

I clench my fists at the memory, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. Why does it hurt so much? I shouldn't feel this way. I shouldn't want more. But I do. God, I do.

I close my eyes, and all I can see is her—Grace, so close to me, sitting beside me in that room. Her soft breath, her tired eyes. The way she looked at me before she teared up, her face inches from mine as I wiped her tears away. The feel of her skin beneath my hands... warm, fragile, real.

And then her words. Her fears. How she'd broken down, telling me how hard the past few months had been, how afraid she was to let me in again. It was like every word she spoke carved another line into my heart, and I wanted nothing more than to hold her and never let go. I wanted to tell her it was okay, that we could figure it out together. But I was so afraid too. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid that whatever I said would never be enough.

I roll onto my side, clutching the pillow as if it could offer some comfort, some answer to the aching emptiness inside me. But there is none. I replay the moment I dropped her home—her soft smile, the feel of her cheek under my hand when I touched her for that brief second. It was enough to make my heart race, yet it also left me hollow, knowing that after everything, I still had to leave her at her apartment building.

A tear slips down my face before I can even process it. And then another. Silent, uncontrollable. I break down, the weight of everything crashing over me.

Why now? Why, after all these years, does it feel like everything is slipping away just when I’m close enough to reach out and hold it?

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to stop the flood of tears, but it’s no use. I can’t stop feeling. Can’t stop wanting her. Wanting to make things right.

I’ve never felt this lost before.

My thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a soft knock at the door, followed by the gentle, familiar voice of the woman from before. "Trace, dear, are you coming down for dinner?"

For a moment, I stay still, staring at the door, knowing that if I open it, I’ll have to face her. I’ll have to mask the storm inside me. But I can’t keep her waiting. I sigh, wiping the remnants of tears off my face before standing up. My feet shuffle toward the door, and I turn the knob, the lock clicking softly as I open it.

She stands there, her face warm and kind as always, concern hidden in the soft lines of her features. I offer her a small smile, trying to seem composed. "I, uh… I ate something on the way home," I lie, forcing my voice to sound convincing. The last thing I need right now is to sit at a dinner table and pretend like everything is fine.

She tilts her head, studying me with a look that tells me she doesn’t entirely believe me, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she shifts gears, her voice gentle as ever. "Did you make sure to take care of yourself today? What about your nutrients? You know you can’t skip them."

A pang of guilt rises in my chest. Even on nights like this, she still thinks of me. I nod, trying to brush off the heaviness in my heart. "I did. But what about you? Did you take your supplements today? You’re always so busy taking care of me."

A smile softens her face, and she gives a little nod. "Yes, I did. Don’t worry about me. You’re the one who works so hard."

I return the smile, though it’s half-hearted. "Good… That’s good."

We exchange a round of good nights, her voice filled with warmth and mine filled with the quiet ache that she seems to sense. I watch her retreat down the hallway, giving me the space I need. As the sound of her footsteps fades, I feel the silence creep back in.

Once alone, I close the door gently behind me and return to my bed, the weight of the day crashing over me once more. I drop onto the mattress and lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, as if the answers to everything might be written in the shadows above me. But all I can think of is Grace.

After what feels like an eternity, I reach for my phone on the bedside table. Without thinking, I unlock it, my fingers moving almost instinctively. I scroll through my apps, landing on the gallery, and with a slow breath, I open the album. Grace's album. My heart tugs as I see her photos lined up in neat little squares, images that stretch back to when she used to share her days with me, her smiles, her moments.

There’s one picture that catches my eye—one of her laughing, sunlight streaming through her hair, eyes bright and carefree. She sent it to me on a random afternoon, no reason at all, just because. I saved it, of course, like I did with all her photos, keeping pieces of her with me even after she stopped texting me altogether.

I gaze at the image, and for a moment, it feels like she’s right here. I can almost hear her laughter, feel the warmth of her presence. Another tear slips down my face before I can stop it, tracing the same path as before. I wipe it away quickly, but my chest feels tight, like it’s caught in a vice.

Why do I still feel like this? Why does she have this hold over me, even after all this time?

My thumb hovers over the screen, lingering on her picture, and I feel the familiar temptation rising. I want to text her. I want to reach out, to say something, anything. But then, that voice in the back of my mind reminds me—she still hasn’t replied to my last message. She hasn't read it. Maybe she won’t ever.

I close my eyes, my thumb twitching over the screen. It’s a risk. A leap of faith. What if she doesn’t respond? What if this makes things worse? What if I push her away even more?

But I can’t let that fear control me. Not anymore.

With trembling fingers, I exit the gallery and open our chat. The last message from me stares back at me, unread and untouched. I hesitate, staring at the blinking cursor in the empty text box.

What do I even say? How do I start?

Finally, I take a deep breath, gathering the courage I need, and begin to type. Simple. Honest.

'Hey, Grace. I know it’s late, but I just wanted to check in. Hope you got home okay.'

I pause, my heart pounding as I hover over the send button. One last moment of hesitation, and then I press it.

The message is sent.

Now, all I can do is wait.

---

Grace’s POV

I make my way to the flat, fishing for my keys in my bag when I hear someone call my name.

"Grace!"

I look up to see Ema, my neighbor, waving at me with a warm smile. She's just a year younger than me, but there’s something so comforting about her presence. Always kind, always understanding.

“Hey, Ema,” I greet her, managing a small smile despite the fatigue tugging at my face.

"Long day?" she asks, her eyes showing genuine concern.

"You have no idea." I chuckle lightly, leaning against my door.

“Well, why don’t you come over to my place for dinner? Mum’s made a little extra, and I know you’re probably too tired to cook.”

I hesitate for a moment, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep the weight of the day off. “I appreciate it, but I don’t want to impose…”

“Oh, come on. Don’t make me drag you over!” she insists, her voice playful but persistent.

I give in, smiling more genuinely this time. “Alright, alright. I’ll come over after I get freshened up.”

"Great!" Ema beams, almost bouncing on her feet. "Mum and I will be waiting. Don’t take too long, or I’ll come back and drag you over myself!"

As she heads back into her flat, I unlock my door, the exhaustion of the day settling back into my bones. A hot shower and fresh clothes should do the trick, I think, heading inside to prepare for a much-needed break.

After a quick shower and slipping into my most comfortable clothes, I find myself standing at Ema's door. I knock lightly, and in seconds, the door swings open.

“There she is!” Ema exclaims with a grin, pulling me inside.

The warm smell of home-cooked food hits me immediately, and I realize just how hungry I am. Ema’s mother, Mrs. Susan, greets me with a warm smile from the kitchen.

"Hello, Grace. It’s so good to see you, dear."

"Hi, Mrs. Susan," I reply, returning the smile. "It smells amazing in here."

"And I’m glad you could join us. Ema told me you’ve been working too hard. You need to eat well.”

We all settle around the table, and Ema's mother brings out dish after dish. Simple but hearty food, the kind that makes you feel at home even when you’re not. Ema and I start filling our plates while Mrs. Susan talks, her cheerful voice filling the space.

“So, Grace,” Mrs. Susan begins, passing me a bowl of mashed potatoes, “how’s work treating you? Ema mentioned you’ve been really busy these days.”

"Busy would be an understatement," I laugh, grateful for the distraction of conversation. "But it’s all part of the job, I guess."

Mrs. Susan nods knowingly. "You young ones work too hard. Make sure you take time for yourself, Grace. Life isn’t just about work."

"I’m trying," I say, trying to sound more upbeat than I feel. Ema chimes in, teasing me about being a workaholic, and I play along, letting the warmth of the evening take over.

As we eat, the three of us chat easily, talking about everything from work to Ema's plans for the weekend. It feels good to be here, surrounded by this kindness and warmth. It’s a different world from the stress of my job.

But then, mid-bite, my phone vibrates on the table.

That familiar buzz.

I freeze for a moment, goosebumps pricking at my skin. The notification is there, glowing softly on the screen. I don’t need to check it to know who it’s from.

Trace...

My heart skips a beat, and suddenly the cozy warmth around me fades. I haven’t even opened the message, but I already feel the pull, the gravity of him reaching out to me after everything that happened today.

Ema notices me glance at my phone and raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

I force a smile. “Yeah, just...work.”

She shrugs and goes back to her meal, but my mind is elsewhere now. All I want is to finish quickly, excuse myself, and retreat to my own place to read his message in the privacy of my room. The rest of the meal feels like an eternity, each bite bringing me closer to the moment I’ll have to face those words from Trace.

The warmth of Mrs. Susan’s home and the delicious meal fills me up in more ways than one, making me feel relaxed for the first time in days. After we finish eating, I lean back in my chair, feeling the familiar weight of sleep pressing on my eyelids. I try to stay present in the conversation, but the yawns are becoming harder to hide.

Mrs. Susan notices. “You look exhausted, Grace. You’ve had a long day, I’m sure.”

I smile apologetically. “Yeah, I guess it’s catching up with me. But thank you both for such a wonderful dinner. I really needed this.”

Ema nudges me playfully. “We could tell. You’ve been yawning non-stop for the last ten minutes.”

“I’m so sorry!” I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s not the company, I swear. I’ve just been on my feet all day.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Susan says kindly. “You should go rest. We don’t want to keep you up any longer.”

I stand up from the table, stretching a little. “Thanks again, really. It was lovely to spend some time with you both.”

Ema walks me to the door, her mother behind us. “You know you’re always welcome, right?” she says, giving me a quick hug.

“I do,” I reply with a smile, feeling a bit guilty for leaving so soon. “And I’ll definitely take you up on that more often.”

With that, I wave goodbye, and they both smile warmly at me as I make my way out. As soon as I step into the corridor of the floor, the cool evening air hits my face, and the quiet hum of the city at night surrounds me. I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the evening's warmth dissipate, replaced by something heavier, something I’ve been holding at bay for the past few hours.

As I enter my flat, the butterflies in my stomach flutter wildly. I close the door softly behind me, leaning against it for a second, my heart racing. I know exactly what I need to do now.

Without even bothering to turn on the lights, I head straight for my bedroom, tossing my bag onto the bed as I sit down. My fingers hover over my phone for a moment, my nerves tingling. Then, taking a deep breath, I open the chat—our chat.

There it is.

His text. The familiar feeling surges through me as I see his name on the screen. My breath catches as I read the message:

'Hey, Grace. I know it’s late, but I just wanted to check in. Hope you got home okay.'

It’s such a simple question, but it knocks the wind out of me. I scroll up, past the message, to the last time we spoke three years ago. It feels like stepping into a time capsule.

Our old messages, casual and easy, filled with inside jokes and long, late-night conversations. I read through them, feeling the emotions wash over me—the laughter, the comfort, the way he always made me feel seen.

And then it stops.

I reach the part where I stopped responding, where everything went quiet. The end of us, though there was never really an “us” to begin with. My throat tightens, and I feel that old familiar ache. The pain I thought I had buried long ago resurfaces, and I blink back the sudden rush of tears.

I sit there for a moment, staring at the screen, feeling torn between the present and the past. It’s like no time has passed at all, yet everything has changed. I can almost hear his voice, the way his words once felt so close.

Three years...

It feels like yesterday.

And now he’s texting me again.

I take a deep breath, my hands trembling slightly as I begin typing. There are a million things I want to say, but none of them seem right. Instead, I just send the simplest message.

'Yes, I'm home.'

The moment I hit send, my heart skips a beat. Time seems to stretch, and suddenly I’m back to that girl from three years ago, waiting anxiously for his reply.

~~~