Page 112 of The Space Between
He’s asleep. Gruene is actually deeply asleep beside me.
His body is loose, not rigid with guilt or drowning in the past. His touch is there, not distant or punishing. He’s justhere.
His face is so peaceful. So soft. So relaxed.
I don’t know what to do with soft when it comes from him… intense, he’s gorgeous. Soft… I can’t even handle it.
So, I just stay still, letting myself exist in it. Just letting myselffeel it.
The moment will end. I know it will. I know him. The tide always recedes.
But this morning, for the first time, I feel like maybe it doesn’t have to.
Maybe the tide is shifting.
Maybe I’m not just the storm he can't avoid.
Maybe I’m the one thing he doesn’t want to outrun… anymore.
He stirs just before seven.I never went back to sleep. I’ve just been lying here, watching him sleep beside me, reveling in the comfort of his even breathing.
He doesn’t say much as he rouses. He just drags his hand down my spine once, kisses my shoulder at the curve, as though he’s afraid I’ll disappear, and then gets up without making a sound.
He finds his jeans on the floor and slips them on, not buttoning them. He doesn’t ask where his shirt is.
He looks down at me and sees me looking back at him. Neither of us says anything.
I sense the change in him. Whatever happened last night cracked something open and now he doesn’t know how to put it back inside of the box.
Good.
Neither do I.
Leaning down, he kisses me softly.
I don’t ask him to stay but I don’t stop him, either.
When the door closes behind him, I lie there for a long time, wrapped in sheets that smell like sweat and sun and him.
I replay every second—every breath, every touch, every unspoken ache that slid between our bodies like it had always belonged there.
Last night wasn’t about sex. It was aboutneed. It was about pain and closeness and letting go while making room for something new.
It was a true beginning and I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same.
I lie in bed,just staring at the ceiling for a bit before getting up a little after eight.
I hop in the shower and wash my hair. I shave my legs before standing in front of the mirror wrapped in nothing but a towel longer than necessary because I don’t want to cover the bruises, he left with his mouth, with clothes.
They’reproofof something. Of him letting me in. Of me lettinggo.
I make coffee and lean against the counter while I brews. Then, I pour it into my favorite blue mug and walk barefoot out onto the dock and watch the river flow slow and golden under the rising sun.
The floaters will be out soon. The river will fill with laughter and splashing and the blaring buzz of cheap Bluetooth speakers. But right now, it’s just mine. And his.
It’s ours.
The mug burns my hand, but I hold the ceramic tighter because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting to be left behind.
