Space, he learned, was not empty.
It carried weight. Memory. Expectation. It pressed against him in unfamiliar ways, shaping his thoughts even when he tried to keep them still. He told himself he was honoring her request. He kept his distance. He adjusted his routines. He made a careful show of absence.
Outwardly, it looked like respect.
Inwardly, the space grew louder.
When they crossed paths again, it was brief and unplanned—no warning, no preparation. A hallway narrowing around them, a moment that arrived before either could step aside. He felt it immediately: the tightening in his chest, the sharp awareness of her presence as if the air itself had changed temperature.
She noticed him and stopped.
Not in alarm. Not in invitation. Just acknowledgment.
They stood there, a measured distance between them that felt deliberate now. Important. He stayed still, hands loose at his sides, posture open but restrained. He wanted to prove something—to her, to himself—but he wasn't sure what proof would look like anymore.
"I've been giving you space," he said quietly.
The words sounded fragile once spoken, like they could be misunderstood if held too tightly.
She nodded. "I know."
There was no warmth in her voice, but no edge either. Just steadiness. It disarmed him more than anger would have. He had expected tension, maybe even accusation. Instead, there was clarity—clean and unyielding.
"I appreciate it," she added.
The phrase should have satisfied him. It was recognition, after all. Confirmation that his restraint had been noticed. But the relief he expected didn't arrive. The distance remained, firm and intact, like a boundary that didn't need to be defended because it was already understood.
He searched her face for something else—uncertainty, perhaps, or hesitation—but found none. Whatever he had imagined as unfinished between them existed only on his side of the space.
"I don't want this to be strange," he said, careful again. Always careful.
"It doesn't have to be," she replied. "As long as it stays simple."
Simple.
The word landed heavily. Simplicity meant limits. It meant no hidden meanings, no extensions, no quiet permissions. It meant accepting the shape of things as they were, not as he wished them to be.
They stood there a moment longer, the pause stretching but not breaking. Then she stepped aside, making room for him to pass. The gesture was small, courteous—and unmistakably final.
He walked on.
Behind him, the space closed again, returning to its ordinary dimensions. But inside him, it remained wide and unresolved, filled with everything he had not said and everything he now knew he could not claim.
For the first time since noticing her, he understood something clearly.
Wanting was no longer the problem.
Letting go—truly letting go—was.