I’m in Love with My Ex’s Absence

The Space

I loved you, and when you left, you left a Space. And I fell in love with that Space. Not right away, I mean, but over time. At first I hated the Space. It was just always there! But then I somehow got used to the Space. Then I started to appreciate it, and then I missed it when it was gone. 

Before I knew it, the Space and I had become friends. I started really enjoying hanging out with the Space; I liked talking to it, and listening to it too—to its opinions, hopes, doubts and worst fears. This might sound strange, but the Space and I even sort of had our own secret language.

One night, the Space and I ran into some old friends of mine, David and Iris—I don’t think you know them—walking out of the movie theater. “David!” I said. “Iris!” I hugged them both. “I want you to meet someone.” I gestured to the Space. “This is the Space.” 

David and Iris looked at me, and then at each other, and then at the Space. 

“And this,” I said to the Space, “is David and Iris.” 

The Space smiled. 

“I’m sorry,” said Iris. “What?”  

“Iris,” said David. 

“This is the Space,” I said.

The Space waved.

We went our separate ways, but a few hours later I texted David: So what did you think?

Of the movie? he responded. Yeah good.

No of the Space! I wrote. We’re just friends now but I think there might be a real connection here?

And I was right about that. The following week, the Space and I went for a walk behind the college when it started to downpour. I took the Space’s hand and we ran for cover under a nearby tree, where I stopped abruptly against the trunk and the Space sort of stumbled into me. Before I knew it, the Space was looking into my eyes and I was looking into the Space’s eyes. Then the Space put its arms around me and kissed me, and I kissed back. 

The weeks that followed might have been the best weeks of my life. Some nights the Space and I went on proper dates—skating hand-in-hand at the university ice rink; hiking up Mt. Geryk—and other nights we just spent hours on my couch talking to each other and kissing. It really didn’t matter what we did as long as we were together. One night that summer, I told the Space I was falling in love with it, and the Space said it loved me too. That was our first night together; I fell asleep in the Space’s warm embrace.

Soon the Space and I were basically living together; it kept its own place, but it was at my apartment all the time. We got used to each other’s daily rhythms and habits; we ate our meals together, exercised together, watched TV or read together every night. I grew accustomed to falling asleep next to the Space, and waking up to find the Space still there beside me.

Admittedly, sometimes the Space would get quiet—distant. At times I felt like the Space was right there with me, focused and present, but at others it seemed vacant and removed. In those moments, as strange as it sounds, I almost felt lonely—despite the presence of the Space.

One night that fall, the Space and I were watching a science fiction movie when my phone rang. It was you. I was taken aback; I hadn’t talked to you in months. “Hold on a second, will you?” I said to the Space, and I took the phone into the other room. 

You asked if we could meet and talk. “Yeah, sure we can,” I said. “But I should tell you that I’m seeing someone.” 

“Oh,” you said. “You are?” 

“Do you remember the Space that you left when we broke up?” 

“The—what?” 

“There was a Space—a really significant one,” I said. “And while we didn’t get along at first, we eventually became friends, and—” 

“You and—who now?” 

“But the relationship, you know, evolved,” I said. “And now things with the Space are going really well.” 

“Oh-kay,” you said. “Well, I—OK.” 

“But listen—how are you?” I said. “Is everything OK?”  

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.” 

“Good—I’m really glad to hear that,” I said. “It’s really nice to talk to you,” I added, because it was. I’d missed you—maybe even more than I’d realized.

When I got off the phone, though, the Space sat me down and said it needed some time apart. I was flabbergasted. “I don’t understand,” I told it. “I thought things were going great.”

But the Space said it needed space. I asked the Space how long it had felt this way, but the Space wouldn’t elaborate; it just sat there silently, an empty expression on its face.

“We’ve built a life together,” I told the Space.

The Space didn’t even reply.

“How can you not have anything to say to that?” I said. 

The Space left my place that very night. I was so bereft I couldn’t sleep. I called you early the next morning and you came right over to console me. “I just miss the Space so much,” I sobbed into your shoulder. 

“I know,” you said. 

“I honestly don’t know how I’m going to live without it.”

“I know it seems impossible,” you told me. “But tomorrow, you’re going to realize that you don’t need the Space as much as you thought. And there’ll be less of the Space in your mind the day after that, and the day after that. Until one day you realize you’ve forgotten the Space completely.”

I nodded as if I understood, but inside I knew I’d never get over the Space. I vowed right then and there to keep its memory close, and to hold a place for the Space in my heart.

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