According to dictionary.com, one of the meanings of space is the freedom or opportunity to express oneself, resolve a personal difficulty, be alone, etc.; allowance, understanding, or non-interference.
Sadly, you never know what it really feels like unless you’re living with and within it.
“M is coming over and I don’t want you to stay,” is a new email message I get on the day after our talk.
“But, where will I go?”
“Home. Your home.” The reply comes a little too quickly.
A few seconds after reading that last reply, something clicks in my head. I tell my co-workers I‘m going to step out for a ½ hour and I’ll be back.
In a rush, I walk to J’s place, step into the unit, and in less than 10 minutes, I pack everything that is mine or had any memories associated with me. Clothes, toothbrush, hairbrush, soap, shampoo, condoms, food, books, magazines, and pictures; it’s all placed in a couple of bags.
All of this is done in a rather emotionless state of mind. These actions aren't done out of spite, revenge, or mendacity, but because they are a request that is being complied with.
Before I walk out, I look around one more time, knowing this might be the last time I’ll ever be here, take a deep breath and say goodbye. No tears are shed because I won't will myself to cry.
This is space, and it’s what J asked for. It’s not going to be easy to live with space if you’re not accustomed to it, but it’s something that has to be learned, no matter how much it hurts to do so.
The irony of it all is J doesn’t know what J means and it’s evident in the various attempts that are made in the following weeks to alleviate the nothingness between the both of us. As it turns out, J doesn't know the meaning of the word.