The Space Between

Dedication to InceptionGirl for that gorgeous cover on the side, and because she's one of my favorite writers here on Wattpad. Go check out some of her works!

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"If only she could be so oblivious again, feeling such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter."

~Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

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The Space Between

"I've always been good at seeing things," Said Pilar, "And only you could know what I mean by that. Only you."

And he did. Reaching for the paper, now lying crumpled and dejected upon the carpeted floor, Andrew smiled crookedly. He unfolded it and laid it squarely between them, fingers drumming over the surface absentmindedly.

"Of course," Andrew smiled, but it seemed wrong. "Of course I do," He repeated.

She stole the paper cautiously from between them. "But you don't." She countered, "Maybe sometimes. Maybe then. But not now." Her gaze flickered to the window where bluebird perched on a slender tree branch, hazy morning light seeping in through the vermilion curtains.

"I see everything," She whispered, catching his distraught expression out of the corners of her eyes. "No, no. Don't say it isn't true. Because it is, Andrew."

"What are you talking about, Pilar?" He said, softly, as though he thought if he spoke too loudly he would break the fragile exterior which barely remained over his best friend. "No one sees everything. You know that."

She shook her head, slowly. "No, not everything I suppose. But enough."

"Then tell me.Tell me what you see, and I promise that I'll listen."

She stared at her hands, covered in small scars and callouses. Memories. Memories of rough skin and piquant flavored laughter, of envious silence and sleepless nights. And she did. She saw it all.

"I wouldn't know where to begin." She said, truthfully.

He laid his hands on top of hers, rubbing his thumb in slow circles. "Pilar," He whispered, lifting her chin gingerly, "Begin at the beginning."

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Back then, I thought about you like you were fiction. I pretended like you were someone else, like I was someone else, like we were living in something tragic and cerebral and poetic, but I was just romanticizing the ache in my chest to make myself feel whole.

I had seen you do it a hundred times. Smile. But back then it was only me who saw-I didn't have to share. Maybe I'm selfish, and callow, and naive: But it's never felt so wrong.

It started with a girl. A new girl named Liza. She was traditionally beautiful, her long, brown curls falling in smooth waves down her back, her dark eyes warm and angelic. Almost like yours. When Liza first came, I dismissed her as nothing. Even with her expansive array of upturned, wide-eyed glances simpering smile, nobody seemed to care. Everything was already figured out in our highschool. We were a small one, then. And we didn't want to make room for someone new. We didn't need to.

Except for you, Andrew. It had to be you.

You were the only friend I'd ever had, my anchor to reality. And I loved you, Andrew. I couldn't help it. You were the boy with the curly brown hair and tawny colored eyes, the boy who could charm his way to the top of the world. Constructed throughout pure, unadulterated rationality, the sum of you being no more than a 17-year-old high school-boy who thrived on the coherence of logic and charisma. You were a comfort; it was a relief so see a human being inhabit themselves so easily.