Chapter 37: The Space Between Us
The apartment was quieter than she remembered.
Not silent, exactly—Emma could still hear the hum of the fridge, the distant rumble of city traffic, the soft creak of the wooden floor when she walked barefoot—but the air felt different. Hollow, somehow.
Lucas's things were gone. His black hoodie that used to hang on the hook by the door. His guitar, usually perched on the sofa's edge, waiting for an impromptu jam session. Even the scent of his cologne, earthy and warm, had faded from her pillow.
She wrapped her arms around herself as if her body could remember the warmth he took with him.
One week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours without him.
Not that she was counting.
---
It hadn't been a breakup. At least, not officially. They hadn't shouted or cried or accused. They hadn't slammed doors or made dramatic declarations. Instead, it was a quiet, painful conversation in the studio over lukewarm coffee.
"You need to go," Emma had said, voice trembling. "This internship is everything you've dreamed of."
Lucas had stared at her, jaw clenched, as if looking for a loophole in her words.
"But what about us?"
"I don't want you to give up your future for me," she whispered. "We can try long-distance. We can... hold on."
He had reached across the table, fingers brushing hers.
"I'll come back," he'd promised.
And then he was gone. Off to Chicago. A city of opportunity. Of unknowns. Of space.
---
Emma didn't cry until the night after he left.
She sat on the floor of their tiny studio apartment, surrounded by unfinished canvases and paintbrushes, and let it all out. The tears came in waves—soft and silent at first, then loud and messy, like the ocean during a storm.
But by morning, her eyes were dry. Her face blotchy, but determined.
She stood up, took a deep breath, and picked up a brush.
---
The days passed in bursts of motion and stillness.
She painted obsessively—canvas after canvas, pouring every tangled emotion into color and form. Her work took on new depth. She stopped painting pretty things and started painting honest things. Messy things. Real things.
A girl standing on the edge of a rooftop, arms out like wings.
A phone screen glowing in a dark room, unread messages floating above it.
A heart made of glass, shattering mid-air.
The pieces spoke when she couldn't.
---
Every night, she waited for his call.
Sometimes he phoned at midnight, his voice soft and exhausted but still hers.
"Today sucked," he'd mutter, and she'd close her eyes and picture him lying on his new bed in some high-rise dorm, hair messy, eyes rimmed red from overwork. "But I saw this old man feeding pigeons in the park and thought of you."
She smiled, even when her heart ached.
Other nights, it was her who dialed.
"I made pancakes at 2 a.m.," she'd say. "Burned half of them. You'd be proud."
They talked about everything and nothing. Shared stories. Sent memes. Recorded voice notes.
But it wasn't the same.
A screen couldn't hold a hug.
A text couldn't calm a panic attack.
Distance made even "I love you" feel like an echo.
---
By the third week, the loneliness started to settle in her bones.
She tried to stay busy—volunteering at the gallery, helping Ellie with her fashion portfolio, starting a new mural at the youth center—but every now and then, she'd catch herself staring at couples holding hands on the street and feel a sharp twist in her chest.
Worse were the days when Lucas didn't call.
He always apologized later. "Sorry, babe. The studio kept me until 2 a.m. My phone died. I didn't mean to—"
She believed him. Of course she did. But doubt is a dangerous thing. Even in small doses, it grows like a weed.
She didn't say what she was really thinking.
That maybe the space between them was stretching too far.
---
One Thursday, she received an email from the gallery curator.
Her piece The Leap had been accepted into the summer showcase.
Emma gasped, nearly dropping her phone. She reread the email three times to be sure.
They wanted her. Her work.
Her legs shook as she paced the living room, clutching the phone like it held oxygen.
And without thinking, she messaged Lucas.
> Guess who just got into the summer gallery show?
Hint: she's a genius with a paintbrush and stunning cheekbones.
His reply came quickly:
> EMMA. HOLY SHT.*
I knew you would. I'm so freaking proud of you.
Do you know what piece they picked??
> The Leap, she typed. The one of the tightrope walker.
> That one always hit hard, he wrote. I remember watching you paint it, the night we talked about fear.
She smiled. That night had been a turning point for them. She remembered it clearly—Lucas sitting on the floor, playing guitar softly, while she painted a figure suspended in air, halfway between falling and flying.
"You should be there," she texted suddenly. "At the gallery show."
He sent a heart. But didn't make a promise.
---
Two weeks later, it was the night of the showcase.
Emma stood outside the art gallery, palms sweaty, stomach twisted. She wore a flowing dark green dress, her hair curled loosely, makeup subtle but confident.
The gallery buzzed with energy. Spotlights lit up canvases like stars. Waiters passed flutes of sparkling cider. People moved from painting to painting, murmuring thoughts, snapping pictures.
And in the center of it all, her painting.
The Leap.
The figure on the tightrope glowed under golden light. There was no net. Just wind and possibility.
As Emma watched people stop to admire it, her throat thickened with emotion. Not just pride—but hope. Fear. Everything wrapped in one.
"Excuse me," someone said behind her. "Is this yours?"
She turned.
And froze.
Lucas stood there.
Black button-up shirt. Navy blazer. His hair was longer, falling across his forehead in waves. He looked tired—but beautiful.
"Lucas," she whispered, stunned. "What are you...?"
"I told you I'd come back."
Her heart raced. "You flew in just for this?"
"Couldn't miss it," he said. "I told my mentor I had to be here. If he didn't understand, he could fire me."
Emma laughed, choking on a sob. "You're insane."
"For you? Always."
And then they were hugging. Or maybe falling into each other. Her arms wrapped around his neck. His breath against her skin.
The room blurred, melted away. All she felt was him.
---
They stepped outside later, hand-in-hand, the night air soft and warm.
She leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked toward the river.
"I don't want to be apart anymore," she said.
Lucas looked down at her. "Me neither."
"But we still have dreams. Big ones."
"I know," he said. "But maybe we can dream side by side. Find a way to make both things true."
She paused, then smiled. "Maybe we already are."
They stood by the river, city lights dancing on the water.
Lucas reached into his jacket pocket. "I brought you something."
He handed her a folded sketch.
She opened it.
It was a new version of The Leap. But this time, the tightrope walker wasn't alone. Another figure stood at the end of the rope, arms open.
Her.
And him.
Still reaching.
Still believing.
Still choosing each other.
Emma blinked through tears. "We're going to be okay, aren't we?"
He kissed her temple. "We already are."