sɪɴғᴜʟ sʜᴏᴛs ☄️

The Space Between Us

There's a certain kind of silence that only exists between two people who know each other too well.

The kind that says everything.

Ryan and I existed in that silence for days after we reunited. Not in a way that was awkward, but in the way that two people relearn how to sit beside a wound without touching it. How to smile while healing.

We didn't talk about the past. Not yet.

We existed in stolen moments—gentle ones.

It started slowly, like the first few drops of rain before a storm.

It was a Tuesday morning.

I was curled up on his couch, my feet tucked beneath me, wearing the same hoodie of his that I "accidentally" took home years ago. He walked out of the kitchen with two mugs of coffee, shirtless, his grey joggers slung low on his hips. Hair messy. Skin kissed golden by sunlight.

"You're staring," he said, handing me my cup.

"You're cocky."

"I'm observant," he replied, settling beside me, too close and not close enough at the same time.

"You make bad coffee," I said after the first sip.

"And you keep drinking it," he shot back, raising an eyebrow.

Touché.

He leaned back, one arm draped across the back of the couch, his fingers brushing against my shoulder lazily, like they had every right to be there. I didn't move away.

"I'm still trying to believe this is real," he murmured.

"So am I," I whispered.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

It wasn't anxiety, not anymore. It was this unbearable ache of wanting to be close to him and not knowing how.

I sat on the edge of the bed in the guest room he insisted I use—trying to be respectful, giving me space.

But I didn't want space.

I wanted him.

Barefoot, heart racing, I padded to his door and knocked softly. The door opened before I could knock again.

He was standing there in a plain white T-shirt and boxers, sleepy and disoriented.

"Alina?"

I didn't say anything.

I just walked into his arms.

And he held me like he'd been waiting all night for me to come.

We climbed into his bed without a word. We lay on our sides, facing each other, our fingers brushing in the small space between us.

"I'm scared," I admitted.

"I know," he whispered.

"But I don't want to run this time."

His hand moved to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly under my eye.

"Then don't," he said. "Stay."

So I did.

The first time we made love wasn't rushed. It wasn't messy or desperate.

It was soft. Deliberate.

Ryan's hands moved slowly, like he was tracing me into memory. As if he was trying to relearn every part of me, not just physically—but the space I occupied in his world.

He kissed me like he was afraid I'd disappear again. Each press of his lips asking a question: Are you still here? Are you staying?

And I answered every one with my body.