The Narrow Space

Erik had three rules he lived by, the kind that kept a man sharp and ready for anything.

Rule One: Always sit facing the exit.

Rule Two: Drink the coffee black; sugar creates a comfort you shouldn’t get used to.

Rule Three: Never linger once the cup is empty.

He was currently sitting at a small, wobbly table in the center of the café, aggressively adhering to Rule Two while violating Rule One. He wasn’t facing the exit. He was facing the corner booth—his usual half-shadowed sanctuary—which was now occupied by a woman who seemed entirely unaware she was sitting in the only defensible position in the room.

It was a Tuesday in March. Outside, the rain on Hawthorne Street didn’t fall so much as hover, a gray mist undecided about being weather. Inside, the air smelled of roasted beans and damp wool.

Erik checked his watch. 7:02 PM. He would finish his Americano by 7:15. Be in his car by 7:20. Routine kept the world manageable. He had survived by staying at the threshold of things—close enough to feel the world, far enough not to be touched by it.

Then the woman laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It was small, unforced—light enough to tilt the air around it. She was talking to the barista, a young woman with purple streaks in her hair. The woman in the booth gestured with her chipped white mug, and the barista smiled back—really smiled, not the tight, polite one Erik was used to.

Erik looked down at his drink. His name was misspelled on the sleeve: Eric. He didn’t mind. He liked anonymity. After months of coming here, he remained a ghost in a gray jacket.

He looked up again.

She was removing her scarf—a long knitted gray thing she piled beside her like she was building a nest. Not demanding attention. Not reaching for anything. Just present, like a candle someone forgot to blow out.

A familiar tightening rose in his chest.

Don’t look, instinct whispered.

But he did.

She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, revealing a small silver hoop. A simple motion, yet it brushed against him like a spark he wasn’t ready for.

She opened a battered green paperback, adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, lifted her cup, inhaled the steam, and closed her eyes as if the aroma carried a memory she trusted.

Erik tightened his grip on his own cup. He knew that moment—the way people believed in warmth before testing if it would last. He’d done it himself once, in a kitchen with yellow walls, imagining a whole life from the steam rising off someone else’s coffee. A life that dissolved when she walked out three months later.

He took a sip of his black coffee. Bitter, grounding.

She turned a page, her brow folding in quiet concentration.

7:12 PM. Close enough to leave.

He stood. His chair scraped loudly against the wood—a sharp sound that made a man two tables over glance up.

The woman didn’t. She was protected by the invisible radius of her focus.

Good.

Erik buttoned his coat to the chin. He put his half-empty cup into the trash bin near the door.

Thud.

He stepped outside—raining now.

Cold met him instantly—merciful, uncomplicated. The March wind carried wet pavement and exhaust, scrubbing away the café’s warmth.

Safe.

He turned toward the parking meter where his sedan waited, hands deep in his pockets, thumb rubbing the seam of his coat—a small repetitive motion polished into muscle memory.

A couple passed under a red umbrella, shoulders touching, laughing about something inconsequential. The ache beneath his ribs stirred but didn’t surprise him.

He reached his car.

He unlocked it.

A metallic clink answered from the curb—something small, struck by his shoe.

He paused.

There, half-submerged in a puddle, lay a burgundy leather portfolio. The silver clasp open. Water seeping into the edges of paper inside.

Erik stared.

Rain pattered harder now, darkening the leather.

His rules whispered the familiar command: Leave it.

Not your problem.

Never linger.

He opened his car door.

The interior light washed over the pavement, brightening the soaked portfolio.

He hesitated.

Then his phone buzzed.

David: Still on for next week? Got a slot at The Mercury. 7 PM set.

Erik typed: Yeah. I’ll be there.

He looked down at the portfolio again.

The rain kept falling.

And the part of him that wrote songs—the part he kept buried but not dead—recognized exactly what was happening to the pages inside.

He sighed, crouched, and picked it up. Water ran down his sleeve.

He closed the clasp.

It was heavier than he expected—thick with effort someone had carried for a long time.

***

He stood there, rain soaking through his jacket, portfolio slick in his hands.

Through the fogged café window, he could see the corner booth.

The woman—Anna, though he didn’t know her name yet—was no longer calm.

She was standing now, patting her coat pockets, checking under her scarf, bending down to look beneath the seat. Even through the rain-streaked glass, he could see the panic in the quick, searching motion of her hands.

Erik closed his car door. He didn’t lock it.

The walk back felt longer than the walk away, each step a negotiation with the part of him that preferred distance over involvement.

Leave it, his instincts said.

Drop it at the door. Don’t get pulled in.

But his feet carried him forward anyway.

He reached the entrance. For a moment, his hand hovered over the brass handle.

Inside, she was speaking to the barista now, pointing under the table. Her face was tight with worry.

He pushed the door open.

The bell above it chimed—sharp, clear, cutting the low hum of the café.

Anna looked up immediately.

Her eyes were wet behind her wire-rimmed glasses, bright with relief and fear in the same breath.

Erik didn’t stop to think. He crossed the room, wet shoes squeaking, coat dripping onto the floor. He didn’t remove it; he still needed something between himself and the moment.

He stopped at her table and held out the portfolio.

“Is this yours?” he asked.

His voice sounded rough, like it hadn’t been used on anything personal in a long time.

She froze. Then she reached out, hands trembling, and took it from him, unclasping it in one motion to flip through the pages inside—sketches, watercolors, the loose beginnings of sequential art.

“I thought I lost it,” she whispered. “I thought it was gone.”

“It was by the curb,” Erik said. “The clasp was open.”

She ran her fingers over the damp edges, exhaling shakily. “It’s okay. Most of it’s dry.”

She pressed her palm against the leather cover.

When she looked up at him again, the gratitude in her expression was so unaffected it almost made him step back.

“Thank you,” she said. The words came out raw.

He nodded, unsure where to look.

She brushed a loose hair behind her ear. “I’m Anna.”

The name landed gently between them, warm even in the chill clinging to his coat.

Erik tightened his grip on his sleeves. Saying his own name felt strangely vulnerable.

“I’m Erik.”

She smiled, small but real. “You’re soaked.”

He glanced down at his jacket. Water darkened the fabric, dripping onto the floor.

“I was leaving,” he said.

“I figured.” She gestured to the empty seat across from her—the one facing the door. “Can I buy you a coffee? It’s the least I can do.”

Erik looked at the chair. Looked at the door. Then back at her.

There was no pressure in her face. No expectation.

He exhaled once, a quiet surrender.

“I drink it black,” he said.

“Boring,” she teased, waving at the barista with the purple hair. “But fixable.”

He pulled out the chair with a half smile.

The legs scraped against the wood—loud, unignorable.

He sat down.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t sitting with the exit in mind.

He wasn’t calculating how fast he could escape.

He was just there.

Anna checked her portfolio again, then closed it carefully and rested both hands on top.

“So,” she said, her voice lighter now, “tell me what dragged you back in from the rain.”

Erik opened his mouth—and for once, didn’t reach for the safe lie.

“I couldn’t leave someone’s work in a puddle,” he said simply.

Her expression softened. “Thank you.”

The barista arrived with the drinks. Erik wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic.

It felt like risk—warm, real, close.

He didn’t pull back.

***

The steam rose between them, curling in thin ribbons.

Anna cupped her Honey Lavender Latte; Erik held his black coffee like a small furnace he wasn’t sure he could trust.

She tilted her head. “Do you make things? You knew exactly what a sketchbook looks like in distress.”

He hesitated, thumb brushing the warm ceramic. “Songs,” he said quietly. “I write songs.”

Her eyes brightened. “Really? Do you perform?”

“Sometimes.” He cleared his throat. “There’s a small venue next week. The Mercury. Seven o’clock.”

“I’d love to hear you play,” she said—so simply he didn’t know where to put the surprise he felt.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she said, gentle but certain.

He breathed in slowly. The room seemed a little less sharp around the edges.

Anna rested her chin on her hand, the tension from earlier fading from her posture.

“What kind of songs do you write?”

“Quiet ones,” he said. “About… the spaces between things.”

She considered that. “Sounds honest.”

“It’s easier than being loud.”

“Not always,” she said softly.

He looked at her then—not at her scarf or her glasses or the portfolio she guarded—but at her. And she didn’t look away.

She tapped the leather cover. “This graphic novel… It’s messy. I’ve redrawn the same panel forty times.”

“Why?”

“Because every time I get close to finishing, I see something wrong with it.”

He nodded. He knew that instinct too well.

“What’s it about?” he asked.

“A woman who can only tell the truth in dreams,” she said. “So, she stops sleeping.”

“That’s—” He searched for the right word. “Beautiful.”

She laughed softly. “It’s a work in progress.”

Most things worth doing were.

They talked for a while—small, meandering questions that made space instead of taking it. Why she chose this café (“best evening light”), why he came here (“no one bothers me”), how long she’d been drawing, what instruments he played.

The conversation wasn’t smooth. There were pauses, hesitations, small breaths where neither knew what came next. But none of it felt like failure. It felt like possibility learning its shape.

At one point, Erik noticed his coffee had gone cold.

He didn’t care.

Anna’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, dismissed it, returned to him without apology.

Outside, the rain softened to a thin drizzle, streetlights catching the wet pavement in long silver streaks.

“I should head out soon,” Anna said, checking the clock. “Early shift tomorrow.”

Erik nodded, bracing himself for the familiar impulse to retreat—not as a goodbye, but as a shield.

But she wasn’t closing off. She was simply ending the night.

“This was… good,” she said. “Would you want to do it again? Coffee, I mean. Without the whole dramatic rescue.”

He almost smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

She pulled out her phone. “Can I have your number?”

He recited it. A moment later, his phone buzzed in his pocket—a small wave emoji.

“There,” she said. “Now you have mine too.”

She gathered her scarf, her coat, the precious portfolio she held like something newly restored. Erik stood and helped her with the door as they stepped into the cool March night.

“Which way?” she asked.

He pointed left. She pointed right.

“Opposite directions,” she said, amused.

“Seems about right,” he replied.

They stood still for a moment, the world around them glossed with rainlight.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” she said. “At the show.”

He opened his mouth to deflect—habit, instinct, fear—but the words didn’t come.

“Okay,” he said instead. “I’d like that.”

She smiled—warm, real, brief in a way that made it linger longer.

“Goodnight, Erik.”

“Goodnight, Anna.”

She walked toward her car, the portfolio tucked safely under her arm.

Erik watched her go, but this time he didn’t feel the urge to turn away first.

He let the moment end on its own.

His phone buzzed.

David: You writing anything new? We could use a fresh opener.

Erik stared at the text, then looked at the dark sky above the wet street, air still smelling faintly of coffee and rain.

He typed back: Yeah. I think I am.

***

Erik drove home with the window cracked open, letting the cool night air settle the last of his nerves. The city lights blurred across the windshield, soft and unreal, as if the evening hadn’t fully decided whether it belonged to memory yet.

Inside his apartment, the familiar quiet waited—steady, neutral, unchanged. He hung up his coat, kicked off his shoes, and stood for a moment in the dimness, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of rain ticking against the window.

He reached for his guitar almost without thinking.

It had been weeks since he’d picked it up—months since he’d played anything all the way through. Most nights he opened a voice memo, captured a fragment, then stopped before the melody could ask anything of him.

Tonight, he didn’t reach for his phone.

He sat on the edge of his couch, rested the guitar across his knee, and let his fingers find the opening phrase of a melody he'd been avoiding for years.

The first line came easily—it always had:

"Hearts break..."

Then nothing. Just the space where the rest should be.

For three years, he'd stopped here. Let the fragment dissolve. Saved it as a voice memo he'd never open again.

Tonight, he didn't stop.

His fingers moved through the changes, feeling for what came next. The melody rose, turned, found its way into the space he'd always left blank.

He thought of Anna’s portfolio, water-damaged but whole. Of her smile when he sat down.

And then, quiet as breath, the second line appeared:

"...but they sing."

His hands stilled. He played it again.

Hearts break, but they sing.

The line that had been waiting for three years.

He opened his laptop and saved the recording.

Not as a draft nor a voice memo but as a song.

Title: The Narrow Space.

Outside, the rain thickened, tapping the glass in soft, steady rhythms. Erik leaned back, listening to the echo of the last chord hanging in the room—an ending that finally existed because he’d stayed long enough to reach it.

For the first time in years, he didn’t check the exits.

He just sat there with the sound of something finished.

***

Thursday, 6:45 PM.

The Mercury smelled like old wood and beer, its exposed brick catching the amber wash of stage lights. Erik stood at the edge of the small platform, tuning his guitar, aware of every creak in the floorboards beneath his feet.

David was setting up the drums behind him. "You good?"

Erik nodded, though his hands were unsteady.

The door opened. A group of three filtered in, then two more. The Thursday crowd was always small—fifteen people was a good night.

The door opened again.

Anna stepped through, rain-damp hair tucked behind her ears, the same wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. She scanned the room, found him, and smiled.

Erik's fingers stilled on the strings.

She waved—small, certain—and moved to a table near the front. She set down her portfolio, shrugged off her coat, and settled in like she'd been coming here for years.

David leaned over. "That her?"

"Yeah."

"Don't fuck it up."

Erik almost laughed.

He opened with two older songs—safe, familiar, songs he could play without thinking. The room settled into the music, a handful of people listening, most talking quietly over drinks.

Then he adjusted the mic.

"This one's new," he said.

Anna looked up.

"I finished it earlier this week. It's called 'The Narrow Space.'"

He didn't look at her as he began. He looked at his hands, at the strings, at the space between the notes where he used to stop.

The first line came steady:

“Hearts break...”

He kept going.

“...but they sing.“

The melody rose and turned, found its way through the verses he'd finally written. He felt the room shift—not dramatically, just the small adjustment of people leaning in, listening closer.

When he reached the final chord, he let it ring out, warm and imperfect.

Then he looked up.

Anna's eyes were bright. She wasn't wiping them, but he could tell.

She mouthed two words: “Thank you.“

After the set, he found her by the merch table that didn't have any merch.

"You came," he said.

"I said I would."

They stood there, the noise of the bar swelling around them—laughter, clinking glasses, David packing up the kit.

"The song," Anna said. "It was beautiful."

"It's about—"

"I know what it's about," she said softly.

Erik slid his hands into his pockets, feeling the seam of his coat. For once, it wasn't armor. Just fabric.

"Do you want to get out of here?" she asked.

"Yeah."

They walked out into the cool March night, the rain reduced to mist now, softening the streetlights into halos.

"Where to?" Erik asked.

Anna smiled. "I don't know yet. But it's a start."

They turned left together, toward the blur of city lights and the uncertain future, and for the first time in three years, Erik wasn't planning his exit.

He was just walking forward.