She sat in her dimly lit room, the soft glow of her phone the only light in the darkness. Her husband lay beside her, peacefully snoring, his presence steady and warm, a comfort she cherished deeply. She loved him—there was no doubt about that—but the weight in her chest wasn’t because of him. It was because of the man on the other side of her screen. He wasn’t her husband. He wasn’t even someone she could claim as her own, not in the way she secretly wished. But he was hers in other ways—ways that neither of them had fully admitted.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, her heart caught between hope and resignation. He was always there for her, but not in the way her husband was. He existed in the quiet spaces of her life, in the pauses between conversations, in the messages sent late at night when the world felt too heavy. She was his best friend, maybe more, but never fully his. And yet, he couldn’t imagine life without her.
There had been nights like this before, when they had shared too much, said things that blurred the lines between friendship and something else. They never spoke about those nights the next day. The silence around them remained unbroken, but it lingered. We crossed a line, didn’t we? she sometimes wondered. But she never asked. Maybe it was better that way.
Her fingers hovered over the screen again as she remembered one night in particular. His voice had been low, full of the heaviness he carried. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here,” he had said. She had paused, heart beating in her throat, but answered as calmly as she could. “I’m not going anywhere.” There had been a moment of silence on the line, one that felt like a confession neither of them could make. They both knew what was left unsaid.
“I’m here,” she had typed now, her fingers trembling slightly as she hit send. “Always.” The message was meant to be a comfort, a promise, but it felt like an echo of her own longing. She wondered if her words were more of a burden to him, a reminder of what he couldn’t have, rather than a source of solace. He needed her—he told her that time and again—but she knew he wasn’t ready to confront the feelings that lingered between them. Maybe he was afraid of what life might look like without her constant support, or maybe he was afraid of something deeper.
Her husband grounded her, a constant presence in her life. But there was something in the late-night messages with him—something that made her heart race in a way that left her both comforted and conflicted. She had once asked herself, How far can I go before it crosses a line? And she wasn’t sure she knew the answer anymore.
His response came slowly, a brief flicker on her screen. “Thanks.” The word seemed to carry more weight than it should—a simple thanks for her endless support, but it also carried a silent apology for his inability to give more. He depended on her in ways that he couldn’t put into words. Walking through life felt impossible sometimes, and he leaned on her to get through the days when his strength ran out. She wasn’t just his guide through the hardest moments; she was his safety net, his reassurance that he wouldn’t fall apart completely.
He lay in his own space, his phone heavy in his hand. Her message was warm, inviting—a reminder that no matter how dark things got, she would always be there. He glanced around his small, cluttered apartment—the empty glass on the table, the unmade bed, the echoes of a life that felt incomplete. “I’m fine,” he typed out, though the words felt hollow. He wasn’t fine. The weight of everything pressed on him daily, leaving him feeling empty, lost. But the thought of facing the world without her support was terrifying. What would happen if she wasn’t there? Could he stand on his own, or would he crumble without her to hold him together?
Lately, there had been something in his voice—an uncertainty, a hesitation she hadn’t heard before. She wondered if he had started to realize, like she had, that they were approaching a line neither of them wanted to cross.
His thoughts drifted back to the past. The long conversations that stretched into the night, the times when she had pulled him back from the edge without even realizing it. There had been that one night, when his thoughts had been darker than usual, when he had typed out a goodbye that felt too final. But she had sensed it, even from miles away. Her words had brought him back. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He hadn’t even realized how much he meant it until the words were already out. She had responded, calm but with an underlying intensity. “You don’t have to find out.”
She had saved him more times than she knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that. It would make things too real, too complicated. And maybe part of him feared she would one day get tired of catching him. What would he do then?
He needed her—needed her in ways he didn’t fully understand yet. She wasn’t the one hurting him, but she was the one who kept him going, who lifted him when he couldn’t stand on his own. Without her support, the thought of getting through the day became impossible. She was the one guiding him through the maze of his life, through the uncertainty and fear that kept him tethered to his own doubts and insecurities.
As he drifted off to sleep, the weight of unspoken words and half-formed promises settled over him. He glanced at the empty glass on the table, its reflection catching the night outside. In the quiet darkness, he held onto the hope that somehow, she would keep guiding him through the maze of his life, helping him find a way to survive. He couldn’t make it alone—at least, not yet—but with her by his side, he knew he could make it through another day. Without her, he feared he wouldn’t make it at all.
But somewhere in the quiet space between them, he also knew—one day, this wouldn’t be enough.
reflections of an unquiet mind 