Chapter 2: The Space Between Us

Her POV

I don’t know what hurts more—the silence or the realization that he’s perfectly fine without me.

It’s been a week now. A week since my last message. A week since I told myself to stop. And I have. I really have.

But it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped waiting.

Every time my phone lights up, my heart betrays me, hoping it’s him. Every time I scroll through my messages, I expect to see his name. But he’s nowhere. He’s gone.

And maybe that’s what I needed to see.

Maybe this is the confirmation I never wanted but always feared. That I was never as important to him as he was to me. That my absence doesn’t affect him the way his affects me.

I should be angry. I should hate him for making me feel this way—for making me doubt everything we had.

But all I feel is empty.

I go through my days like a ghost, pretending I’m fine, pretending that my heart isn’t breaking a little more each time I realize that I meant nothing to him in the end.

Late at night, I still fight the urge to reach out. Not to beg, not to ask him to come back—but just to see if he’d respond at all. If I still exist in his world.

But I don’t.

And slowly, painfully, I’m learning that I have to live with that.

His POV

I saw her post today. She looked… happy. At least, that’s what it seemed like.

It was just a simple picture—her out with friends, smiling, like nothing ever happened. Like she hadn’t spent weeks clinging to me, begging me to stay. Like she hadn’t cried over me, hadn’t broken herself trying to hold on.

Like I never mattered.

I should be glad. I should be relieved that she’s finally letting go, just like I wanted.

Then why do I feel like the one who’s been left behind?

I don’t know what I expected. For her to keep chasing me? For her to keep proving how much she cared while I kept pretending I didn’t?

But now that she’s silent, now that she’s not trying anymore, I feel it—the loss.

I keep telling myself not to care. That this is what she needed, that I wasn’t what she needed. But deep down, I know.

I miss her.

I miss the way she made me feel—like I was worth something, like I was someone important.

And now that she’s gone… I’m starting to wonder if I made a mistake.

Her POV

Another week passed. Another seven days of silence. Another seven days of pretending I don’t care, even when every part of me still aches for him.

I should be proud of myself. I haven’t messaged him, haven’t begged for his attention, haven’t tried to remind him that I exist. That has to count for something, right?

But if I’m being honest, it doesn’t feel like progress. It feels like grief. Like losing a part of myself that I’ll never get back.

Because, in a way, I did lose something—I lost us.

I used to believe that love could fix anything. That if two people cared about each other enough, they’d always find their way back. But I’m starting to realize that love isn’t always enough.

It wasn’t enough for him.

And maybe that’s the hardest pill to swallow.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, searching for the girl I used to be before him. The one who didn’t check her phone every five minutes, hoping for a message that would never come. The one who didn’t second-guess every word, every action, wondering if she was too much, if she was the reason he stopped caring.

I miss her.

I miss the version of myself that didn’t need validation from a man who couldn’t even decide if he wanted to stay.

But no matter how much I try to reclaim that girl, she feels lost to me.

Still, I can’t go back. I can’t keep living in a loop, waiting for someone who has already moved on.

So I do what I have to—I force myself to move, to smile, to go out with friends even when my heart isn’t in it. I take pictures, I laugh at jokes, I pretend.

And maybe if I pretend long enough, I’ll start to believe it too.

His POV

I wasn’t expecting it.

Another post.

The picture. The smile. The way she looked fine.

She was out with her friends again, her face lit up like I hadn’t been the reason she broke down in long messages, desperate for answers I refused to give.

For a second, I just stared at it. At her.

And then, something inside me twisted.

She was really moving on.

It shouldn’t have surprised me. It’s what I told myself she should do. I pushed her away for a reason—I needed space, I needed to breathe. But now that she’s finally giving me that space…

It doesn’t feel right.

I thought she’d always be there, waiting, like she always had. I thought no matter how many times I ignored her, she’d keep trying, keep holding on.

But now?

Now, she’s smiling without me.

I should be happy for her. I should be relieved that she’s finally letting go. But all I feel is this nagging emptiness, this sudden realization that maybe, just maybe, I was wrong.

I tell myself not to think about it too much. That she’s probably just putting on a front, trying to convince herself she’s fine.

But what if she is?

What if, while I was trying to push her away, she realized she didn’t need me anymore?

The thought unsettles me.

I should message her. Say something—anything. Just to see if she’d still respond. Just to see if I still matter.

But my pride stops me.

I tell myself to let her go. To let her be happy.

But as I lie in bed that night, staring at my phone, resisting the urge to type her name, I realize something I never wanted to admit.

I miss her.

And I don’t know if it’s already too late to do something about it.

Her POV

The hardest part about moving on isn’t the silence. It’s the memories.

They’re everywhere. In the songs that randomly play when I least expect it. In the places we used to go, the food we used to share, the late-night talks that once felt like home.

Even in the simplest moments—like waking up in the morning—he’s there.

Because for so long, he was my first thought. The first person I wanted to talk to, the first name that popped into my head whenever something happened. Now, I wake up to nothing. No messages, no missed calls. Just an emptiness that stretches across the day, a void I don’t know how to fill.

I try.

I go out with friends. I smile in pictures. I laugh at their jokes, even when my heart isn’t in it. I push myself to have fun, hoping that if I fake it long enough, it will become real.

But the truth is, I still feel hollow inside.

One afternoon, while waiting for my coffee order, I catch sight of a couple sitting by the window. The way the girl leans her head on the guy’s shoulder, the way he absentmindedly plays with her fingers—it’s so familiar it makes my chest tighten.

I look away quickly, blinking against the sudden sting of tears.

I shouldn’t be like this. I shouldn’t let a simple moment remind me of what I lost.

But that’s the thing about love. It’s in the smallest details, the quietest moments. And those are the hardest to erase.

Later that night, I find myself scrolling through old messages. And yes, I didn't really delete our chats.

I know I shouldn’t. I know it will only make things worse. But I can’t help it. I reread the words we once exchanged, the late-night confessions, the silly inside jokes. The I love yous that used to feel so certain.

And then I reach the last message I ever sent. The one he never responded to.

A lump forms in my throat.

I should delete them all. Wipe everything clean.

But my fingers hover over the screen, unwilling to let go completely.

Instead, I turn off my phone and bury my face in my pillow, trying to ignore the ache in my chest.

I wish I could hate him. I wish I could be angry.

But all I feel is sadness.

Because even now, after everything, a part of me still wants him to come back.

His POV

I don’t know why I checked her profile again.

It was instinct, habit—something I did before I could even think about stopping myself.

And that’s when I saw it again.

Another picture of her, laughing.

She was out with friends again, her hair slightly messy from the wind, her eyes bright in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time.

She really looked happy.

It hit me harder than I expected.

I thought she’d still be sad. I thought she’d still be hurting, still waiting for me to come back.

But she wasn’t.

At least, that’s how it looked.

I kept telling myself it’s just for show. That she’s putting on an act, the same way I am. But the more I stare at the photo, the more doubt creeps in.

What if she really 'is' moving on?

The thought unsettles me more than it should.

Later that night, I find myself driving around aimlessly, my mind stuck in a loop of what-ifs.

I pass by a coffee shop we used to go to, and for a second, I almost expect to see her sitting inside, waiting for me. But of course, she’s not there.

I don’t even know where she is anymore.

A few nights ago, I had a dream about her.

It wasn’t anything dramatic—just the two of us, sitting on a rooftop, talking like we used to. She was laughing at something I said, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and I remember thinking how beautiful she looked.

Then I woke up.

And the silence that followed was almost unbearable.

I hate admitting it, but I miss her.

I miss the way she cared, the way she always tried to understand me even when I didn’t make it easy. I miss the way she looked at me like I was someone worth loving.

But I also know I don’t deserve her.

I treated her like an afterthought. I pushed her away when all she wanted was to stay.

And now?

Now, I might have lost her for good.

I don’t know if I should reach out. If I even have the right to.

But as I lay in bed that night, staring at my phone, I realize something I never expected.

For the first time since she stopped messaging me, I feel it—fear.

Fear that she’s finally letting go.

Fear that I waited too long.

Fear that when I finally decide to come back… she won’t be there anymore.

Her POV

Days pass then weeks, and people expect me to be okay. Friends tell me, 'It’s his loss,' and family members say, 'You’ll find someone better.' But none of it makes me feel any less broken.

I try to fill my time—school, work, going out. I pretend that I’m fine. And maybe I’m getting better at it. Maybe I’m learning how to function without him.

But then, something small happens, and it shatters everything.

Like today.

I’m at a bookstore, running my fingers over the spines of novels when I see 'his' favorite book on the shelf. The same one he used to talk about endlessly, the one he told me to read because he swore I’d love it.

I remember how he’d quote lines from it randomly, how his eyes would light up when he explained why a certain passage meant so much to him.

And just like that, I’m back in the past—sitting beside him, watching him get lost in the pages, smiling at the way he’d sometimes mumble the words to himself.

It’s a stupid memory. Small. Insignificant.

But it makes my throat tighten.

I should walk away. Ignore it.

Instead, I pull the book off the shelf and flip through the pages, searching for the passage he loved the most.

When I find it, my vision blurs.

I close the book, put it back, and leave the store before the lump in my throat turns into tears.

That night, I do something reckless.

I open our old chat and start typing.

"I saw your book today."

I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the send button.

For a second, I imagine what would happen if I sent it. Would he respond? Would he ignore me?

Would he even care?

I don’t want to know the answer.

So I delete the message and throw my phone onto the bed, curling up into myself.

Maybe this is what it really means to move on. Not just resisting the urge to reach out—but accepting that he’s no longer there to answer.

His POV

I told myself I wouldn’t check her profile again.

That it didn’t matter what she was doing.

That it was better this way.

But I don’t have that kind of self-control.

So when I see another picture of her—this time at a bookstore, her head tilted slightly as she looks at a shelf—I feel something sharp twist inside me.

She always loved bookstores. She could spend hours wandering between aisles, running her fingers over the covers, reading the first few pages of random books.

I wonder what she was looking for today.

And then, out of nowhere, a thought hits me.

Did she see my book?

The one I always talked about? The one I begged her to read?

The possibility lingers in my mind longer than it should.

I shake my head, frustrated with myself.

Why do I care?

But the truth is, I already know why.

Because I miss her.

Because every time I think I’ve finally pushed her out of my mind, something pulls her back in.

A scent. A song. A random thought.

And it’s worse at night.

Because at night, there’s nothing to distract me. No work, no noise, no conversations. Just me and my thoughts.

And my thoughts always lead back to her.

I stare at my phone, debating whether to message her.

I almost do.

But I know if I start, I won’t stop. I’ll fall back into the cycle of pushing and pulling, and I can’t do that to her again.

So I put my phone down.

And I try to sleep, ignoring the nagging feeling that I just let another chance slip away.

Her POV

A weeks passed.

I stop counting the days since we last talked.

But just because I stop counting doesn’t mean I stop feeling.

One evening, I’m walking home when it starts raining. It’s sudden and heavy, soaking through my clothes before I can even pull out my umbrella.

And all I can think about is him.

About the time we got caught in the rain together, laughing as we ran for cover. How he pulled me under an awning, brushing wet strands of hair from my face.

“You look like a wet puppy.”

I had smacked his arm, pretending to be annoyed, but I was smiling.

He smiled back.

And then… he kissed me.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t perfect. It was just us, standing in the middle of a storm, like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

I close my eyes now, standing in the rain, letting it wash over me.

I wish I could go back to that moment.

Back to when everything felt simple.

But I can’t.

So I take a deep breath, blink away the water—rain or tears, I don’t even know anymore—and keep walking.

His POV

I don’t expect to see her.