That Space Between Us

I’m sitting on the couch, curled up, my chin on my knees, arms wrapped around my shins. You sit next to me, lounging, taking up three cushions where I take up a half. Yet there’s still this space between us. You’re talking, your hands running through the air, your words big and full of fire. I watch you. Normally, I feel alive, this close to your energy. But right now, I find it exhausting. There’s a break, a tiny pause where you must take a breath. I open my mouth and say something. You stop and stare at me, surprised. But you wait. Encouraged, I keep talking. I unbend, sit up a little straighter. Now you watch me. But I trail off. I’m afraid. Afraid that I’m boring you, that this will somehow make you think less of me. You wait a little longer. But just as I’m about to try again, you begin to talk again. I stop. Wait. I thought you were listening. I thought you cared. I just needed a little time.
Don’t
You
Know
Who
I
Am?
No. You don’t. I’ve never told you. I’m not used to words the way you are. But there are these awkward silences you think you need to fill. But sometimes, sometimes you should let things be. It’s like you have no room for quiet, for anything. Noroomnoroomnoroomnoroom. Everything around you is taken up. Please. Just give me a minute. Because I think if you let some of those silences be just a little longer you’d see that some things just can’t fit in the gaps between your words, no matter how they try. Maybe, if you did that, I might begin to realize that you could have room for me too, that maybe I’ll be big enough, that I’ll fit just right. And that little space between us on the couch might not seem so far. So the next time you have to stop to breathe, I’m going to try again.