You, the Whisper Across Lifetime

Chapter 20 – The Space Between

I haven't found the right word for it.

It wasn't that I felt something was wrong with Kaelen. Not exactly. He was still himself—present in his own way, consistent, warm, steady. But something in me felt… out of sync.

After resting my thoughts on those fragments—those strange pieces of a life I couldn't place, couldn't name, couldn't frame—I realized something: the present had become almost too smooth.

Kaelen and I weren't fighting. Nothing was off. If anything, things between us had settled into something soft. Familiar. Reliable.

Kaelen, with his dry humor and sudden tenderness. With his texts and late-night calls. He never pushed. Never asked for more than I was ready to give. But I could feel it in his silences, in the way he sometimes asked, "Are you okay?" even when I hadn't said anything at all.

We were in the space between something. Not an ending. Not yet a beginning. Just a long stretch of stillness where the next page hadn't turned.

And I didn't know whether to move forward…

Or to wait.

It was as if something that usually arrived at this point—some intuitive guide, some flicker of inner knowing—simply didn't come. The voice inside me had gone quiet.

And I felt unsteady.

Not because of Kaelen.

But because I was still waiting.

Waiting for something unseen to catch up.

And the moment I realized it, I froze.

What's wrong with me?

I remembered those first few dates with Kaelen—the awkward silences, the unexpected laughter. But through it all, there was a voice in me that whispered, I like him.

It wasn't loud.

It wasn't dramatic.

Just steady. True. Quietly sure of him in a way my mind couldn't explain, but couldn't deny.

And over time, that voice never once fell out of sync with my thoughts.

It never argued.

It never had to.

So why now, in this calm, in this steadiness—why did I feel like something had gone missing?

But I tried not to let this internal tug-of-war bleed into my daily rhythm.

Restrictions were easing. Slowly, yes—but steadily. Offices were beginning to call people back. Public spaces reopened in stages. The world, after a long pause, was stretching its limbs again. And I told myself I needed to prepare—to shift gears, mentally and logistically.

For almost a year, I'd been back under the same roof with my parents and my sons. It wasn't always easy, but we had settled into a rhythm—equal parts chaos and comfort. Meals together. Shared screens. The quiet buzz of life overlapping.

My parents were in their seventies now. Though they usually lived with my younger sister, they seemed happier this way—surrounded by grandkids, filling their days with the kind of noise that kept them smiling. Since schools were still running online, we decided we'd take it slow. Adjust gradually. No rush.

There was still time.

And somehow, in the middle of it all, I felt that maybe… this version of "normal" wasn't something I needed to leave behind completely.

Living through these times meant taking joy in the small things. Keeping my hopes steady. And when the moment finally came, I got to do something I'd been longing for—I met up with Auriel.

Our usual café in South Jakarta was still under restrictions. No indoor seating, limited service. But trust Auriel to find a hidden gem. She texted me with the enthusiasm only she could pull off:

"You'll love this place. Homemade everything. Quiet. Owner's a butcher. Menu's are our basics : meat, milk, heaven."

I didn't need more convincing.

The café sat tucked in the corner of a residential area, half-hidden behind flowering hedges and a sleepy wooden gate. It was part indoor, part open-air patio. The breeze ran through gently, and the smells—roasted meat, herbs, fresh milk froth—made me instantly relax.

It was perfect. Private. Uncrowded. And very us.

I gave her a big hug—tight, long, not our usual cheek-to-cheek peck from the old days. It wasn't planned. It just happened. My body moved before my brain caught up. Maybe I needed it more than I realized.

Auriel responded the same way. No hesitation. Just warmth, bone-deep and solid.

"I missed you," she mumbled against my shoulder.

"I know. Me too."

We pulled apart slowly, laughing at ourselves, and headed inside. The place was half-empty, quiet in the best kind of way. She picked a cozy couple's seat in the corner—two cushioned chairs angled toward each other, with just enough distance for plates and privacy.

The sun filtered through the high windows, casting soft shadows across the wooden floor. Everything felt calm. Real.

We ordered without looking at the menu too long—she knew what she wanted, and I trusted her instincts.

"Feels weird, right?" I said after a moment, settling into my seat.

"Meeting in person like this after so long. Almost forgot we're made of actual flesh and not just voice notes."

She grinned. "Tell me about it. You looked taller in my WhatsApp camera."

I laughed.

Then she gave me that look again—half teasing, half reading my energy like a radar.

"So," she said. "Where do we begin?"