The Space Between”
At first, it was all ease.
Jasmine and Eli met during a late summer workshop in the hills, one of those places where people go barefoot and talk about truth. They were seated next to each other on the first day, sharing a weathered couch and awkward laughter during introductions. That evening, around the fire, Eli spoke about losing his brother, and Jasmine shared how silence filled the spaces where her father used to be. Something quiet and tender wove between them.
Over the next few weeks, they grew close slowly, softly. They lingered after sessions, trading stories, laughter, and memories like old friends who had only just met. Eli admired how Jasmine spoke with her hands and cried without apology. Jasmine was drawn to how Eli held space for pain without flinching.
They were vulnerable with one another. Not romantically, not formally just two people who saw and softened with each other.
But closeness has a way of brushing against old wounds.
One afternoon, during a group exercise, Jasmine pulled back suddenly, closed off, sharp in tone. Eli felt stung, confused. He asked if she was okay, but she deflected. Later, when he needed space of his own, she misread his quietness as rejection. Their pain echoed into each other like feedback.
Neither knew how to speak the tangled truth of it: that their own histories were surfacing. That the fear of being misunderstood was stronger than the desire to fix it. That caring for someone didn’t always mean knowing how to stay close.
What had once felt open now felt charged. They texted, briefly. A few words here and there. “Hope you’re okay.” “Been thinking of you.” But neither of them could find the door back in.
They both cared. That was never the problem.
But the misunderstanding, unspoken, raw, hung between them like a mist. Each feared being the one to get it wrong. Each wanted to be seen, to be right, to be understood, but didn’t know how to ask for grace without seeming fragile or foolish.
So, time passed. Not in anger, but in distance.
And sometimes, at night, Jasmine would think of that quiet porch moment when Eli had said, “Some people feel like home.”
And Eli would remember the way Jasmine once whispered, “I don’t know how, but I feel safe with you.”
They hadn’t stopped caring.
They just didn’t yet know how to speak through the ache of their missteps.
And sometimes, that is what love looks like:
A pause in the middle of the story.
A space waiting to be bridged.
When the Nervous System Speaks Louder Than Words”
There are moments between people, especially those who care deeply, where something invisible, yet powerful, rises to the surface. It isn’t always logic, or intention, or even the heart’s desire that leads the way. Sometimes, it is the body. The past. The imprint of what came before.
Trauma doesn’t always show up with sirens. Sometimes it slips in through a sigh, a missed call, a sudden withdrawal. Sometimes, it speaks through the tightness in the chest, the urge to run, the inability to answer a simple question like “Are you okay?”
Shock, once held in the body, learns to whisper warnings even when there is no real threat. A voice inside says, “Be careful. Don’t go there. It might not be safe.” And so, even in the presence of someone gentle someone good, the body flinches. The heart pulls back. Words are fumbled. The eyes look away.
Jasmine had learned to disappear when things got too close. It was a survival strategy that once kept her safe. She didn’t mean to shut Eli out. Her nervous system just… did it for her.
And Eli, so used to being the strong one, didn’t always know how to say “I need you to stay.” He’d been taught that needing was weakness. That silence was strength. So when Jasmine pulled back, he didn’t reach out. He froze.
Two good people.
Two soft hearts.
Two bodies still holding memories of when closeness had turned to hurt.
This is the quiet tragedy of trauma: it doesn’t need a villain. It can unravel connection without intention, without blame only unspoken patterns and protective reflexes that learned to shield, not trust.
And yet…
The presence of care still lingers.
Love does not vanish it waits, quietly, for safety to return.
For the nervous system to feel the warmth of a steady presence.
For someone to say, “I’m still here,” even if clumsily.
For a hand to be offered, not perfectly, but sincerely.
Going deeper with another requires not just courage, but patience.
It means understanding that sometimes, the walls were built before the meeting.
That sometimes, love must move at the pace of the slowest part of us.
And that healing doesn’t always look like resolution it can begin with a pause, a breath, and a shared willingness to try again.
Even when it’s hard.
Especially when it’s hard.
Because that’s where something real can grow
beneath the ache, in the space where understanding meets tenderness
– Rachel Shields
