Page 27 of Never Quite Gone

Spaces Between

Sunlight painted abstract art across my ceiling, the shadows doing some weird dance that made my head hurt. My hand lay in the empty space beside me, and it took several seconds to realize why that felt wrong. For the first time in six years, I hadn't automatically reached for Michael's side of the bed.

The realization hit like a sucker punch to the gut. My throat closed up as I stared at my traitorous hand. Was this what moving on felt like? The thought sent panic racing through my chest, my heart monitor app cheerfully logging the spike in BPM. That morning reach had become part of my identity – like if I just kept doing it, maybe some echo of our life together would stay real.

The shadows shifted again, turning into something that made my brain itch – patterns that felt familiar in a way that scared the shit out of me. I squeezed my eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Ever since Alex had walked into my ER, these almost-memories kept bleeding through the edges of reality like watercolors running wild.

Running.Fuck yes. Running was safe. Quantifiable. Heart rate, distance, pace – pure data with no room for whatever the hell was happening to my brain. I changed with military precision, navigating the minefield of our bedroom – his Nike's stillperfectly aligned by the door, that ratty Columbia hoodie he'd refused to throw out, the marathon photo that felt like it was taken in another lifetime.

Central Park exploded with autumn colors that made my fingers twitch for paintbrushes I'd never owned. My usual route stretched ahead – the one Michael and I had worn into muscle memory, the one I'd kept running solo like some kind of mobile shrine to what we'd lost.

A couple shot past me, matching stride for stride, sharing those private runner jokes that only made sense at mile four. The familiar knife twist in my chest surprised me with its dullness. We'd been them once – so fucking sure we had it all figured out, that we were somehow immune to life's curveballs.

The Met loomed ahead, all imposing columns and stone authority. Something pulled at me to climb those steps, to lose myself in the classical galleries where the air felt heavy with...something. Instead, I pushed harder, letting my lungs burn and my quads scream until the only reality was the rhythm of feet hitting pavement.

My phone buzzed for the third time – Rachel's contact photo grinning up at me like a guilt trip in pixels. I let it go to voicemail, already knowing she'd try again. My sister had turned checking up on me into an art form since Michael died, masking her worry behind casual calls and “just in the neighborhood” visits that somehow always coincided with the rough days.

Eight miles instead of six, because apparently I was trying to outrun my own head. By the time I made it home, my shirt was a sweat-soaked disaster and my legs felt like overcooked pasta.

The apartment was a museum of us – his architectural drawings on every wall, matching coffee mugs we'd bought as a joke, the stupid “his and his” towels from Rachel that I couldn't bring myself to replace. But now new details kept catching my eye, making me dizzy with déjà vu. My hands moved wrong, reaching for things that shouldn't be there, trying to perform actions I'd never learned.

The shower's steam wrapped around me like a hot fog, but it couldn't wash away the weird double-vision that had become my new normal. Everything felt slightly off, like someone had shifted all my furniture two inches to the left in the middle of the night.

“Get it together,” I muttered to the tiles, my voice barely cutting through the water's drum. “You're Dr. Eli Monroe. Chief of Emergency Medicine. This is real. This is now. This is?—“

My reflection in the fogged mirror looked wrong somehow, like someone else was staring back through my eyes. Someone who knew things I couldn't possibly know, who remembered things that couldn't possibly have happened.

Rachel's fourth call hit just as I was toweling off. Her voice cut through the morning haze like a life preserver thrown to a drowning man.

“Finally!” Relief and exasperation played tag in her tone. “I was about to send David over to check on you.”

“I was running. Lost track of time.”

“Mm-hmm.” Pure big sister skepticism. “So you're still good for today? The nursery won't paint itself, and I'm pretty sure my child won't wait forever to make their appearance.”

My chest tightened as autumn light streamed through the windows. Michael had always geeked out about fall painting – some architectural bullshit about the angle of the sun making colors pop that had made me fall in love with him all over again.

Rachel's voice went soft around the edges, that special tone she'd perfected since becoming a therapist. The one that made me want to simultaneously spill my guts and hang up the phone.

“Eli?”

“No,” I cut her off before she could deploy her full arsenal of concerned sister tactics. “No, today is fine. I promised, didn't I?”

“You did.” The pause stretched like taffy, and I could practically see her sitting in her home office, one hand curved protectively over her growing belly as she chose her next words. “Sofia called me. She's worried about you.”

Fucking hell. Of course Sofia had called her. My bestfriend and my sister had formed their own little surveillance squad since Michael died, tracking my mental state like amateur CIA agents. Lately though, Sofia's watchful eyes carried something else – like she was seeing through me to something I couldn't quite grasp.

“I'm fine,” The words came out automatic as breathing, empty as my apartment. “Just busy with the department. The development project?—“

“The one with Alexander Rothschild?” Her tone sharpened like a scalpel. “Sofia mentioned him too.”

The cool bathroom tile pressed against my forehead as I leaned there, trying to find solid ground. How the fuck could I explain what was happening when I didn't understand it myself? The way Alex's presence made reality feel tissue-paper thin, like I could punch through to something else if I just pushed hard enough.

“It's complicated,” I managed, the words almost making me laugh with their inadequacy.

“Isn't it always?” Six years of shared grief weighted her voice, along with something else – worry maybe, or warning.

“Nothing's going on,” The lie burned like cheap whiskey. “Look, I should go. I'll see you in a little while.”

---