The Spaces Between Us - Roommate Love Story

The first time I realized I was in trouble was a Tuesday. Jamie stood in the kitchen, barefoot and humming a Phoebe Bridgers song, pouring coffee into two chipped mugs. Sunrise bled through the window, gilding the scar on their left forearm—a relic of a skateboarding phase they refused to explain. Their hair was still sleep-mussed, their oversized *NASA* tee slipping off one shoulder. I stared a second too long.

“You want oat milk or chaos?” they asked, holding up the carton.

“Chaos,” I said, like I always did. It was our bit.

They smirked, splashing a reckless amount into my mug. “Live dangerously, Alex.”

I burned my tongue on the first sip. *Metaphors*, I thought grimly.

---

We’d met on SpareRoom, of all places. Their profile read: *Artist seeking quiet human who won’t steal my kombucha. Must tolerate ukulele practice.* I’d messaged them as a joke. Two hours later, we were splitting a pizza on the floor of this same apartment, debating whether *Blade Runner* was overrated (they insisted yes; I called them a philistine). They’d laughed, and something in my chest had misfired.

Now, six months in, I knew the rhythm of their chaos: paint-smeared sweatpants, late-night DoorDash orders, the way they muttered arguments with their ex in the shower. (“*You don’t own a single houseplant, Mark! That’s a red flag!*”) They left half-finished canvases leaning against the fridge and forgot to lock the door. They borrowed my sweaters and returned them smelling like turpentine.

They were also, incidentally, the reason I’d started therapy.

---

“You’re doing it again,” said Nora, my best friend, during our weekly Zoom wine purge.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you dissect every word Jamie said today. ‘They called me *reliable*. Was that a compliment or a funeral dirge?’” She mimicked my voice perfectly. “Just kiss them, you coward.”

I choked on my Pinot Grigio. “We’re roommates. It’s a felony.”

“Only if you’re bad at it.”

---

The breaking point came on a Thursday. Jamie’s date—a graphic designer named Lena who wore leather pants to brunch—left at midnight. I pretended to be asleep on the couch, *Succession* flickering mutely.

“You’re a terrible actor,” Jamie said, tossing a blanket at me.

“How was Lena?”

“Fine. Boring. She called *Pet Sounds* ‘elevator music.’”

I sat up. “You’re joking.”

“Dumped her at the subway.” They collapsed beside me, their knee brushing mine. “Why is it so hard to find someone who gets it?”

*I get it*, I didn’t say. *I get that you hate cilantro, that you cry at dog rescue videos, that you paint when you’re sad. I get you*.

Instead, I said, “You’ll find them.”

Jamie looked at me—*really* looked—and the air thickened. Then their phone buzzed. Lena: *U up?*

They stood. “Night, Alex.”

---

The next morning, I found a new canvas in the living room: swirls of storm-blue and gold, with a single stroke of red cutting through. At the bottom, in Jamie’s messy script: *The Spaces Between Us*.

“What’s this?” I asked.

They shrugged, but their ears flushed pink. “Just… something I’m working through.”

---

That night, Nora texted: *TELL THEM OR I WILL*.

Jamie was on the fire escape, smoking clove cigarettes and sketching the bodega cat across the street. I joined them, my heartbeat loud enough to drown out the sirens.

“I need to say something,” I began.

They froze. “Yeah?”

“I’m… allergic to your kombucha. I’ve been dumping it down the sink.”

They laughed, sharp and surprised. “You monster.”

“And I don’t hate the ukulele.”

“What *do* you hate?”

*This*, I thought. *How much I want to kiss you right now*.

“The way you leave wet towels on my bed,” I said.

They flicked the cigarette away. “Noted.”

---

We didn’t talk about the painting. We didn’t talk about the way their hand lingered on mine when they passed the salt. We didn’t talk at all, until the night the power went out.

Jamie found me in the dark, clutching a flashlight. “I have wine,” they said. “And a confession.”

“Which is?”

“I lied on my SpareRoom profile. I hate ukulele.”

I snorted. “I lied too. I love *Blade Runner*.”

They stepped closer. “Anything else?”

The flashlight trembled. “I’m maybe… falling for you.”

Silence. Then their mouth found mine in the dark, tasting of cheap Merlot and relief.

“Took you long enough,” they murmured.

Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent. But here, in the spaces between us, everything changed.