space

He took his stuff, and he left space.

Big spaces in the living room, little spaces in the kitchen cupboards. Space I had prepared myself for, and space I hadn't expected. Space to be unnerved, space to read a little too much into every bump and every breeze outside. Thoughts began to settle in, unwind themselves and expand, to fill his position on the sofa and in my mind, to prod at me and do their best to unseat or unsettle me with suggestions that I might not, in some undefined and unquantified way, be able to cope without anyone with me in this space.

At first the emptiness was all I could see. I could feel his absence more than I could feel my own presence. I lay awake listening to noises that weren't there anymore. We'd shared this space, and now there was twice as much as I was used to, I didn't know what to do with it.

I'd asked him for space, a while ago. I asked him if we could make our lives just that little bit bigger so that I could stretch a little, breathe a little more comfortably. He hadn't understood. To him, space was a reason to shuffle in closer, curl around each other, pull the walls in that bit tighter. Space didn't work for him. He fought against it, and convinced me that was the logical thing to do. I learned, gradually, to distrust space, to be scared of it, to take our little bubble with me everywhere I went. I learned how to shut things out, to make the space smaller.

Today the space seems more normal. It's still not mine, but it's not his, either.

When we met, I lived alone, in my own space. Instead of moving in together, he moved into a space that was already mine. He fitted himself into my life, searching out places to put his belongings, his past, little bits of himself. We both grew, but not together, and when the time came he lifted right out of my life, almost as though he'd never really been there.

He took away the sofabed and the big TV. He took away the micowave and the knives. He took away a sense of comfort, and the dependence he'd needed me to have on him. He took away a closeness that was both too close and not close enough, at the same time stifling and lonely. He took away a fading camaraderie, a confused affection, a frustration and a fundamental misunderstanding that clouded everything we did towards the end.

He took his stuff, and he left space, but not emptiness. It's room to breathe, to move. It's space I needed, and used to have. I don't need to replace anything he took away.

He's looking for someone else's space. When he finds it, he'll slide in like sand, moulding himself to the shape of her life. She'll want that too, I hope. She'll be looking for the comfort that comes from knowing she can't fall, that he'll keep her close and safe, that he'll take care of her. She won't want to kick against him, like I did, to push him out of the way. She'll encourage it, and help him pull the walls in. They'll be strong together. That's what he's looking for, and I hope he finds it.

I keep looking over my shoulder, at the space behind me. It'll be mine, soon.