I Didn’t Ask: The Space Between Us
I spent Friday afternoon in one of my favorite locally owned cafés. I had met a friend earlier and decided to stick around to write and people-watch.
As I looked around, I caught a glimpse of a friend walking through the back room into the adjoining bookstore. We both tend to gravitate to the same places around town, so it was no surprise seeing him. It’s actually how we met—we were seeing each other so often, we finally introduced ourselves. What started as a nod or wave turned into conversations and shared laughter. When we talk, it’s always a fun adventure. I also enjoy his smile. It’s warm and welcoming.
I was pleasantly surprised when he reappeared, standing in front of me, getting in line to place an order. A smile on his face, and mine. We greeted each other.
As he stood in line, I witnessed a quick exchange between him and a stranger. Tension filled the air. He turned, looked at me, and said, “Sorry.”
I was taken aback. I didn’t know why he was apologizing. I got up, walked over, and asked him why. His smile had disappeared, and he looked upset. He didn’t say anything.
Gently, I placed my hand on his left arm. He looked at me, a foot taller, his dark brown eyes meeting mine, and I asked, “Are you okay?”
He didn’t have an answer. It was his turn to order, so I returned to my seat where I watched and waited.
With an Americano in hand, he was standing in front of me and asked if he could join me. I gladly said yes, and immediately cleared space on the table. He sat down.
He dove right in and shared what was going on, what’s been coming up for him lately. The assumptions people make about him, his past, and his life.
I sat there and listened. He’d meet my eyes, then look away—down, around. I stayed with him as he spoke. I watched his shoulders start to open, slowly.
He was looking down at the table.
“I miss my pops.”
These words hit hard. I could feel the weight of them in his voice. I knew instantly that he couldn’t pick up the phone and call his dad.
We sat there in silence.
No need to fill the space. His words hung in the air, like clothes air-drying on a line. Our eyes met. I didn’t move. I was listening. If he needed silence, I was okay with that. He started talking again.
Not long before his dad died, someone else close to him died, too. Two deaths, close together, like dominoes falling.
It hadn’t been that long.
I told him that was a lot to carry, that we continue to grieve those we love, and that grief doesn’t follow a timeline.
He agreed.
I wanted to ask him what he missed most about his dad and his close friend, if he had any memories or stories he wanted to share.
I didn’t ask.
He talked about his friends, how he’s always been there for them. When he shared what he was going through, no one knew what to say. Things got awkward. The conversations shifted, and his needs were pushed aside.
He paused, looked at me again. “I really learned who my friends were when all of that happened.”
I told him that people don’t usually like to talk about death. It makes them think about their own mortality, so they deflect, change the subject. It gets awkward because they’re uncomfortable. They can’t lean in or sit with us when we need them the most.
Something in him softened.
Silence.
Our eyes met, and then he said, “Sorry for talking to you like you’re my therapist.”
I laughed.
Smiling, he leaned back. “So tell me about you.”
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
And we moved easily into other things. Nonfiction. Writing. New Mexico. Music. Raves.
I love these moments. When time slows. When we go beneath the surface. When something real is shared — grief, joy, memory, laughter.
The intimacy of being seen. Of seeing someone else.
Of discovering each other, gently.