The Space Between Us 

By Kenleigh Gottfried 

In perspective of Autumn from If He Had Been With Me.    

There’s a moment I keep going back to. I think I always will. It’s small, inconsequential, really. But it matters to me in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s a single, quiet afternoon in late autumn, the kind where the sunlight is fading and the leaves have turned that perfect shade of orange—almost too perfect, like a painting.

I had just walked home from school. The air was crisp, sharp with the coming winter, but not cold enough to sting yet. I remember pulling my coat tighter around me, the way it felt against my skin. It was my favorite one—worn, soft, and too big for me, but it made me feel like I was wrapping myself in something warm and safe. I had that feeling, too. Safe. At that moment, I thought I was okay.

I don’t know why, but I decided to take the long way home. Maybe I wanted to delay the inevitable—being alone in my room, with only my thoughts for company. Or maybe I just wanted to hold on to the last piece of sunshine before it disappeared completely. Either way, I found myself near the place we used to meet. It wasn’t a big deal—just an old bench by the train tracks, halfway between the high school and my house. We used to sit there together when we were younger. He’d bring me some candy, or maybe a thermos of hot chocolate. Sometimes, we’d just watch the trains go by, talking about nothing, but everything.

I hadn’t seen him in weeks. Not in the way I used to, anyway. The phone calls were fewer. The texts were almost nonexistent. And we both knew why, even though we didn’t talk about it out loud. Life had taken us in different directions, and neither of us knew how to hold on to what we had.

That afternoon, as I sat on the bench alone, I thought about how it used to be. I thought about the way we used to laugh at nothing, the way we’d pass notes in class, the way his eyes used to light up when he saw me.

I missed that light. I missed him.

But it wasn’t just him that I missed. I missed the version of myself that I was when I was with him. I missed the me that didn’t question everything, the one who still believed that we had time—that there was always tomorrow, and the world was big and open and full of possibilities.

And then I thought of the times when I sat on that bench alone, wondering if he was ever coming back, if we were ever going to find our way back to the friendship we once had, to the closeness that felt so natural, so right.

I didn’t know how to find it again, though. I didn’t know how to make the gap between us smaller. So much had changed, and it was like we were both drifting further and further apart, each of us holding on to the space the other used to occupy but not quite touching anymore.

As I sat there, staring at the fading sun, I heard the distant hum of a train on the tracks. It was an easy sound to ignore, but today, it felt louder than usual, almost as if it was pulling at me. I turned my head and watched the train pass, the windows reflecting the light like mirrors, like ghosts.

If he had been with me, I think we would have talked about the train. Maybe he would have pointed out the graffiti on the side, or we would have made up a story about the people inside, imagining their lives. He would have made me laugh, and I would have pretended not to care, but really, it would have meant everything to me.

But he wasn’t with me. He never would be, not in the way I wanted. Not in the way we used to be. The space between us was too wide, and every time I tried to reach across it, I only fell further into the distance.

I don’t know if he ever thought about me when we weren’t together. I don’t know if he felt the absence as strongly as I did. I didn’t even know if he noticed when I stopped sending texts, when I stopped trying to reach him. But I noticed. I always noticed.

And so, I sat there, alone. Not really expecting anything, just letting the silence fill the space between the sound of the train and the fading light. I closed my eyes and imagined that maybe, just maybe, if I stayed long enough, he would appear. Just for a moment. Just to show me that maybe I hadn’t been wrong all along.

But, of course, he didn’t. And I knew, deep down, that it was okay. Or, at least, it had to be.

I stood up, dusting off the seat of my coat, and walked home. The sun was gone by then, and the sky had turned a shade of purple that seemed a little too heavy for this time of day.

I think the worst part of it all is that we never had a final goodbye. There was never a moment where we looked at each other and said, "This is it. This is the end." We just drifted. And maybe that’s the hardest part of all: knowing that you’re walking away from someone without knowing whether they’ll ever look back.

I think about that moment a lot. I think about how we were once everything to each other, and now we’re nothing. And maybe that’s okay too.

But for a long time, I didn’t know how to stop wishing that it wasn’t.