THE SPACE IN BETWEEN 

The Space in Between is where reality

begins to blur with the stories.

 

A glimpse behind the scenes, perhaps -

at the thoughts, moments and pieces

of life that sometimes find their way

into what I write.

And occasionally, the other way

around.

5.) The Box

 

A few days ago, while packing, I had to

open a few of my own Pandora’s boxes.

But let me start at the beginning.

I am a collector.

 

In relationships, I collect things. Tickets.

Seashells. Stones. Little objects that

remind me of holidays, places we

visited, or moments we shared.

I keep them in boxes.

 

Most of the time, alongside

handwritten letters, journals, or little

books I made as gifts for anniversaries

or other occasions.

 

They loved them. And a week later, they

had already forgotten those boxes

existed. Which always made me wonder

about certain things.

But I never questioned it.  

 

For years, the boxes have been sitting

quietly in my basement. Long after the

relationships were over.

I wasn’t even sure why I had kept them.

Perhaps they were holding on to

versions of me I wasn’t quite ready to

let go of.

But only a few days ago, they were

waiting for me.

 

The first box held wedding memories.

Cards. Letters. Small reminders of a

single day. Nothing else. 

Curious, really.

We had spent many years together, yet

somehow everything seemed to begin

and end with our wedding.

In a deeper sense, I suppose it did.

I looked through everything one last

time before putting it into the bin.

Not out of anger.

I am simply no longer that woman.

And if I’m honest, I don’t think I ever

truly was.

 

The second box was different.

It belonged to someone who played

games of betrayal and lies.

For a brief moment, I felt the old anger

again.

But it was just a small echo. 

Time to let this box go for good. 

The photographs went into the bin.

The letters.

The little keepsakes.

The echo followed them.

Not as quietly as the first box.

With fire. 

It felt good. 

 

Some other smaller boxes followed. 

Some with only very few things in them.

Some are already covered in dust.

 

When I looked back at the shelf, I

noticed another box.

I opened it.

It was empty.

This one was meant to be filled.

With shared memories.

With different things.

With another version of me.

But it didn’t work out.

He left quietly.

I don’t blame him. 

There is no reason to.

The box didn't even exist then. 

 

I wish we had had more time to get to

know each other. 

I still think about this, which is

ridiculous, even for me.  

My rational mind tries to put it away,

but there is something inside me that

stubbornly defies that. 

 

I can’t change it. I tried. Very hard. 

It doesn't go away. I can´t even explain

what exactly it is. 

Neither can I solve it.

That path is blocked. 

And somehow the box is still there. 

I still don´t fully understand why. 

 

I stood there for a while, holding the

empty box.

Unsure what to do with it.

I can’t use it for something else.

I can’t throw it away either.

For now, I seem to be stuck with an

empty box.

A paradox.

 

This box will stay open. 

I no longer believe in closed boxes.

Because it holds something worth

keeping. 

Something that never inhabited these

other boxes. 

A part of me I rarely show. 

More important, a part of me that

opened up. 

And a version of someone I was willing

to show it to.

 

So I have this box.

Which is still ridiculous, in a way.

But somehow also heartwarming.

It’s not a sad little box.

Actually, it feels very alive.

It is still empty.

But it doesn’t feel closed.

That is the bigger paradox.

4) Crossing 

 

I got that local phone number the other day.

Now I have two. One for my old life and a new one.

Such a tiny, simple thing.

I stared at the number for a moment.

Somehow, those numbers made it more real.

While packing the last things, I also updated my

professional profile.

And when I entered the new location,

the same thing happened.

Just another city. Another tiny thing.

 

I do think these small steps count.

Maybe more than I thought.

They are physical proof of what had,

until then, mostly existed in my mind

and on a few confirmations.

 

I write often about thresholds.

Turns out, right now I am standing in one.

In my apartment, everything is done.

Just the last cleaning. That’s it.

Two small boxes stay with my son.

Five suitcases go with me.

Everything else is gone.

Surreal how a life can fit into this.

And a very good life.

 

Turns out I need much less than I thought.

The Keeper might raise an eyebrow

at the five suitcases.

So the old life is done.

The new one is not quite there yet.

That’s what standing in a threshold feels like,

I suppose. For real.

A few suitcases. A flight tomorrow.

A phone number. A new location.

Same me.

Or nearly the same.

 

I discovered a couple of things about

myself over the last few weeks.

How easily I can leave things behind.

How hard it is for me to leave people.

How fearless I can be when it comes

to doing what feels right.

How scary it can be when something

needs more than strength and courage.

How all of this makes me feel alive.

How much I missed that feeling.

 

I have plans. Simple ones. Connect with people.

Get out. Do what makes me happy.

And because I am still me,

of course there is a written list behind it.

Not everything changed.

 

I also have plans for Cassandra and the Keeper.

Time to bring them even more alive.

A new format. New stories.

For years, I imagined myself as a writer

living in a little cottage, doing nothing but writing.

Romantic.

Not sustainable for the real me.

I wouldn’t last three months in a cottage

in the middle of nowhere. Maybe less than two.

Turns out, it will be an apartment in a big city.

And it won’t be whole days spent writing.

I need a life around me to write.

Maybe it will be successful. Maybe not.

I am still no Shakespeare.

Doesn’t matter.

It’s fun.

 

And aside from the writing, there is still my job,

which I love. This new setup will need some adjustment

and a lot of work too. I have two weeks off,

which will help tremendously.

Time to settle in, explore, and take

the next steps without rushing them.

Tomorrow the threshold is crossed.

No magical garden. No ravens. No gods.

Just an apartment.

And me.

Possibilities.

Some obvious. Some quiet.

Some I have no idea about yet.

Wonderful.

3. One Way

(The King in the Castle)

 

Today, I discovered a new interesting

feeling. 

I booked my flight.

One way.

I have never booked a one-way flight

before.

When the confirmation arrived, the

feeling appeared with it.

A strange mixture of excitement, a tiny

drop of insecurity,  tension about

whether everything will work out

logistically.

One voice saying:

Yes. It is really happening.

Another asking: What the hell are you

doing? One laughing. One

looking as if thunder had struck them.

All at once.

Interesting.

But I do like new feelings.

 

One of the greatest privileges in my life,

at least that is how I see it, is that I am

not bound.

Well. Mostly.

I have a job. That is a thing. And an

important one to me.

Very important.

I am not the type who can live an

artist’s life and simply

see what happens. I need structure. A

career. Responsibility. All the good

things that come with it.

My move is partly connected to that,

too.

 

But otherwise, I am remarkably free to

choose what I want.

I have rented apartments for years,

mostly because work kept moving me

between places. I never had this idea of

this is my place forever.

It simply never occurred to me.

You never know how life will unfold, so

being attached to one particular place

never made much sense to me.

 

I have friends here and all over the

world. Some for a very long time.

Distance never changed much about

that.

 

Family is a little more complicated.

Some are already gone.

Some I have not spoken to in years,

and there is no need to change that.

We simply took different paths. I love

them, and I think that is enough.

Some I see once or twice a year. Which I

will continue to do.

And then there is one relationship that

is entirely different.

 

My son.

 

He has lived in another city for years

now, which is good.

We have a strong bond, but we speak

only every couple of weeks and visit

when life allows it. On both sides. 

 

We share the same taste in movies and

can talk for hours about theories when

a TV series really catches us.

He is a very good cook, a talent not

from me.

I am miserable at that.

I am a very good listener when it comes

to his questions.

And he is just as obsessive as I am

when it comes to understanding

things.

 

He is also my harshest critic.

The Silver-Haired Child is his story.

Yes, myth and all, I know.

Still his story.

He did not like it.

It was hilarious.

 

He knew the love underneath was real,

and he loved that.

The story itself, however, was absolutely

not his taste.

He likes Harry Potter.

Well, sorry.

Your mother did not write that.

Props to JKR.

 

He did “somehow” like Antevasin,

though.

At least there was that.

 

He does not know yet that I am writing

the Encounters.

They are more contemporary, and

something tells me he might like those

more. Maybe.

I will not tell him now.

I will when a story appears that might

include something of him.

Probably not in the way he assumes.

That will be fun.

Harshest critic.

Mmh.

Just got an idea.

Anyway.

 

What I am trying to say is that this kind

of freedom is a gift.

It has a price, of course.

Freedom usually does.

I like being part of something larger.

A family. A group. A shared life.

I just do not need to be part of it every

minute.

I like coming home to myself, too.

And now there is a new opportunity.

New people. New experiences. New

things to discover.

Also about myself.

I am pretty sure sitting in a new city,

not knowing many people, will feel very

different from anything I am used to.

Exciting.

Possibly uncomfortable.

Probably both.

Still worth doing.

Somehow, I will figure it out.

 

I have a one-way ticket now. It won’t be

long before I am on that plane.

 

That’s another interesting feeling.

 

2. Clawmarks

(A Black Flower)

 

 

I underestimated goodbyes.

As much as I’m looking forward to this

new chapter, it’s very hard for some of

my friends to let me go.

There were many tears this week,

and I’m almost ashamed to admit that I

didn’t cry.

Of course it touched me.

I hugged them and held them close.

But I didn’t cry.

 

I rarely do. I never really have.

Maybe the tears will come later, when

the moment is right.

I don’t know.

But it made me think.

 

I know the power of goodbyes,

probably better than most.

The sudden ones. The silent ones. The

painful ones.

The ones where it feels as though a

part of you has been ripped away,

leaving a space that will never quite be

filled again. 

Or the long goodbyes, the ones that

quietly chip pieces away, day by day,

until there is barely anything left. 

 

Everything I have ever loved and had to

let go had clawmarks in it.

But this is different.

It’s a goodbye to old habits and,

perhaps even more, to the boundaries

that quietly kept me where I was.

No clawmarks.

My friends will still be my friends.

This isn’t that kind of goodbye.

 

In some ways, I think I’m a strange

creature.

My tears are probably rarer than

diamonds.

But I don’t let go easily.

I never have. It simply takes time. And

patience. With myself.

 

The same is true for the words

I love you.

I have never said them lightly.

In fact, I’ve only said them a handful of

times in my life.

To me, they are sacred.

 

And yet, when I fall in love, I fall

surprisingly easily.

Not often.

But deeply.

It still takes me a long time to truly

open the door. 

Looking back, I don’t regret any of

them.

 

That’s the contradiction.

Perhaps the same is true for love and

goodbyes.

I still don’t fully understand why,

but I have a feeling it’s not complicated

- it’s complex.

That tiny distinction changes

everything.

 

Complicated asks to be solved.

Complex asks to be understood.

I’ll choose complex every time.

Even with goodbyes.

Even with clawmarks.

Even with tears.

Even with "I love you".

1. Suitcases and other Things

(The Wheel) 

 

 

It is an interesting feeling. I do not even

have a word for it:

the time before a change takes place.

I walk through my home knowing that I

will soon leave it behind.

Every little thing I once chose to make

it truly mine.

Every familiar corner. Every place

where I spent my time.

 

Surprisingly, it is not sad. It feels more

like closure.

I travel light, some might say - and it is

true.

Only my personal belongings.

Only the things I want to take with me. I

n a suitcase, or in my mind.

 

Some things seem to come full circle.

My parents told me that when I was

little, maybe four or five,

I randomly packed a small pink

suitcase and announced theatrically,

“I am going out now“. 

Most of the time, it made them laugh. 

Until they realised that, unlike other

children, I did not stop at the door.

Now there is another suitcase. And

once again, I will not stop at the door.

This time because I know it is the right

thing to do.

It was not an easy decision. I thought it

through. Or at least I tried to. But

perhaps I did not, not really.

 

Exactly one year ago, on a beautiful

summer night, I felt it.

Some would call it a call. Others might

describe it as a feeling, a deep

knowing.

It was all of that.

And nothing quite like it.

But that night changed the course.

 

Among the many things that followed,

I knew I would find something in two

major cities on different continents.

I had no idea what it would be. Only

that I had to go there. 

So I visited both. 

One gave me a path for my profession.

The other gave me a path for myself. I

chose the path for myself.

 

Interestingly, both came through

people who knew nothing about this -

or about me.

Both mattered. One more. 

Perhaps one day I have the chance to

say thank you. 

 

And here I am, moving soon. Because

of that night. 

There is nothing heroic in this.

It is not the bravery of leaving

everything behind and sailing into the

sunset.

 

Thankfully, I can continue my normal

work from that city.

So there is that. A comfortable start.

And write. And live. 

Only possible because I gave

something away.

Not all, only a part. Something I built

over years.

Now in the hands of someone else.

Unthinkable a year ago.

Too much ambition, too much control.

Too much ego.

Oh and on that front, I am well

equipped.

Always was, not my favorite animal.

It’s on a strict diet - always.

That way it helps, rather than I get in

my own way.

A sarcastic hungry fellow. The

comments are hilarious though.

 

I did it anyway. It was the only way. I am

glad I did.

The courage, perhaps, lies in quieting

the rational voice

that keeps asking what the hell I am

actually doing.

 

Well.

For once, I am not listening to you,

dear voice.

Not with this. 

The suitcase grows fuller by the day.

Curiosity. Gratitude. Joy. Hope.

Laughter. 

And still enough space for more.

Much more.