The Space Between Our Words

I went quiet for a little while.

Part of me wondered whether you would notice. Not in some dramatic way. I think I just wanted to know whether the space I normally occupied would feel any different when I wasn't standing in it.

Your last message was perfectly kind.

You were happy. You felt more confident. The day had given you some reassurance about what was ahead.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with what you said.

And somehow it still hurt.

Not because of the words themselves, but because of everything that wasn't inside them.

I think that was when I realized how much can exist in the space between what one person says and what another person hears.

I had watched you do something difficult and wanted you to know that I saw it—not just the result, but the work underneath it. The composure. The confidence you had earned. I wanted you to know I was proud of you.

I even slipped in the important things: tacos and ice cream.

You said thank you.

Kindly. Normally. Exactly as anyone could.

Maybe I had simply put more between my lines than anyone else could reasonably be expected to find there.

That's the strange thing about words. Two people can read the same sentence and be holding completely different letters.

So I went quiet.

Not to punish you. Not to make you come looking. Mostly because I needed to understand why something so small had managed to make me feel so empty.

I think I know now.

Sometimes you discover how much a person means to you by noticing how much meaning you have been hiding inside ordinary things.

A run is just a run.

Coffee is just coffee.

A race is just a race.

Unless, somehow, it isn't.