Chapter 6 The Space Between Pages

Clara sat cross-legged on her bed, the book resting open on her thighs, its spine already soft from how often her fingers bent it back. The room was quiet in the way late afternoons usually were, sunlight slipping through the curtains, dust floating lazily in the air, time stretching without urgency. She had been reading for a while now, but not with the kind of attention she usually gave books. This time, she kept pausing, rereading sentences without absorbing them, her thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely.

The book wasn’t hers.

That alone made it feel different.

She turned a page, then another, her thumb slowing as if she were afraid of reaching the end too quickly. The smell of the paper was unfamiliar, faintly sharp, like something new trying to pretend it had always belonged there. Peter’s book. His handwriting wasn’t in it, but she could still feel him in the margins, his taste, his curiosity, the strange seriousness hidden beneath his jokes.

Her bedroom door creaked softly.

Her mother stepped inside carrying a small stack of folded clothes. She moved quietly, the way she always did lately, as though Clara were something fragile that might shatter if startled. She placed the clothes on the chair near the dresser, then paused.

Her eyes drifted to the book.

She smiled.

“That’s not yours,” her mother said gently.

Clara glanced up, startled, then looked back down at the cover as if she had been caught doing something she hadn’t realized was visible. “No,” she admitted.

Her mother leaned against the doorframe, studying her daughter’s face, not the illness in it, not the tiredness she was used to cataloging, but the softness around her mouth, the way her eyes seemed more awake than usual.

“Peter?” she asked.

Clara nodded. “We exchanged.”

Her mother’s smile widened just a little, the kind that tried not to pry but couldn’t quite hide its hope. “Do you like it?”

“It’s… different,” Clara said. She hesitated, then added, “I do.”

Her mother didn’t say anything else. She only nodded, as if that answer was enough, then finished arranging the room before quietly leaving Clara alone again.

Clara exhaled.

She returned her attention to the book, but her phone sat beside her on the bed like a small, silent accusation. Every few pages, her eyes drifted toward it. Nothing. No vibration. No screen lighting up with his name.

She told herself not to care.

She failed.

The rest of the day unfolded the way her days often did, routine wrapped in waiting. A short hospital visit. Numbers read aloud by people trained not to sound worried. A reminder to drink more water. A reminder that rest mattered. By the time evening settled in, Clara felt heavy in the way that wasn’t entirely physical.

Dinner was quiet. Her parents talked about ordinary things, work, traffic, something they’d seen on television. Clara nodded when appropriate, answered when asked, her fork moving absently across her plate.

Then her phone buzzed.

The sound cut through the room like a spark.

She looked down.

Peter.

Her lips curved before she could stop them.

Her parents noticed.

Her father raised an eyebrow. Her mother tilted her head knowingly. “Do you need some air?” her mother asked, already smiling.

Clara stood. “I’ll be right back.”

She stepped outside, the evening air cool against her skin. The sky was dimming, not yet dark, washed in soft blues and fading golds. She leaned against the railing and answered the call.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” Peter replied. His voice sounded careful, like he’d practiced it. “I’m sorry I didn’t text earlier.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, I mean it’s not that I forgot. I just… I finished your book.”

Clara straightened. “Already?”

“Yes. And now I don’t know what to do with myself.”

She laughed quietly. “That bad?”

“That devastating,” he said. “It just ends. Or doesn’t end. I can’t tell which is worse.”

“That’s why I keep rereading it,” Clara admitted. “I keep thinking the ending will change.”

“It doesn’t,” Peter said. “I checked.”

She smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “I’ve emailed the author. So many times.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” she said. “Silence.”

They sat in that shared frustration for a moment, connected by a story that refused to give them answers.

Then she heard it.

A sound in the background of the call, it felt broken, uneven. Someone is crying.

“Is that….” Clara began.

“Isaac,” Peter said quietly. “Monica broke up with him.”

Clara’s chest tightened. “Oh.”

“She said she can’t handle what’s coming,” Peter continued. “The surgery. Losing his sight completely. She said she doesn’t want to watch him disappear.”

The word lingered between them.

“Can you come over?” Peter asked suddenly. “He needs someone who won’t lie to him.”

He didn’t wait for her answer.

She was already grabbing her jacket.

When Clara arrived, Isaac was curled on the couch, his face buried in his hands. The room felt heavy with unspoken grief. Clara sat beside him, close enough to be present but not close enough to intrude.

“She left,” Isaac said hoarsely. “Because I’m going blind.”

“No,” Clara said softly. “She left because she was afraid.”

He laughed bitterly. “Same thing.”

Clara shook her head. “Pain demands to be felt,” she said. “But it doesn’t mean it gets to decide your worth.”

Isaac didn’t answer. Peter returned with a box of old plates, setting them down carefully. “Break them, it will help ease the pain,” he said simply.

Isaac stared. Then he stood, lifting one plate and hurling it against the wall. It shattered. Something in him did too.

Later, when the house had quieted again, Clara and Peter sat on the floor, backs against the couch, knees almost touching.

“You meant what you said,” Peter said.

“About the pain?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I always do.”

He watched her for a moment, then smiled softly. “You scare me.”

She smiled back. “Good.”

They talked again about the book. About endings. About how some stories refuse to be finished.

When Clara returned home, the evening felt altered, as if something unseen had shifted.

The next day, she was reading again when her phone rang.

Peter’s name.

“I got an email,” he said without preamble.

Her breath caught. “From who?”

“The author,” Peter said. “He finally wrote back.”

The silence between them filled with possibility.

And somewh

ere, between the pages of unfinished stories, something irreversible had begun.