When the boyfriend who could barely find twenty minutes a week to talk to me suddenly said he needed “space,” I knew the three thousand miles between us weren’t the distance he was talking about. What frightened me was the timing. That same night, his house in California was throwing a party, and for the first time in two years, Daniel seemed strangely eager for me not to be his girlfriend.
Chapter 1
We had met as freshmen at a college in upstate New York. By sophomore year, people rarely said one of our names without the other because we were that irritatingly happy couple who studied together, ate together, spent weekends together, and somehow still enjoyed each other’s company. Daniel was studying computer science, I was majoring in communications, and although neither of us had any idea what adulthood would really look like, we talked about it as if we were already building one together.
The first summer apart had been manageable. Daniel landed an internship with a technology company in Northern California, while I stayed in New York working for a local nonprofit and saving money for school. We texted, called, and video-chatted often enough that the distance seemed temporary rather than threatening.
The second summer was different. Daniel became harder to reach, sometimes going days without answering anything beyond a few distracted words. When we did talk, I could hear video games in the background, roommates coming through his door, or the television playing while I tried to tell him about my day.
“I hate talking on the phone,” he finally admitted.
“You didn’t hate it last summer.”
“I’ve always hated it. I’m just noticing it more now.”
That answer bothered me, but summer was almost over. I told myself we would fix things when we were back on campus.
Then Daniel got an offer to stay in California for a full year.
He accepted immediately.
When he told me, I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the wall.
“You already said yes?”
“It’s a huge opportunity, Kate.”
“I know. I’m asking whether you already accepted.”
“Yes.”
“Did you think about us at all?”
He was quiet just long enough to answer the question.
“I tried not to,” he said. “I didn’t want our relationship influencing a career decision this big.”
It hurt, but I understood part of what he meant. We were twenty-one, not married, and neither of us should have been making every professional decision around the other. So I congratulated him, swallowed my disappointment, and agreed that we could survive one year.
We set one rule.
One real phone or video call each week.
Not every day. Not every night. Once a week.
For several months, Daniel kept his promise. I flew to California once, and he came home once. We hugged at airports, laughed over bad takeout, and talked about how ridiculous we had been to worry.
Then, almost overnight, he started disappearing again.
A text I sent at breakfast would get a one-word reply near midnight. A message asking when he could talk might go unanswered for two days. Twice, we scheduled video calls and he forgot.
The third time, I called him repeatedly until he finally answered.
“What?” he said.
I heard a movie playing.
“Are you serious?”
“What?”
“I have been asking you for three days to call me.”
“I know.”
“And now you can’t because you’re watching a movie?”
“I already started it.”
I actually laughed because I thought he must be joking.
He wasn’t.
“You have time for a two-hour movie but not twenty minutes with me?”
“Katie, this is exactly what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“The pressure.”
I sat upright.
“What pressure?”
“Having to call. Having to Skype. Having to constantly think about whether you’re upset because I haven’t answered.”
“Daniel, we talk once a week.”
“I know.”
“That’s not constantly.”
He sighed as though I were exhausting him.
Then the conversation took a strange turn.
Daniel told me he had been miserable sleeping alone. Throughout college, he had either shared a room with someone or spent most nights with me. Now he lived in a big rental house with six other young professionals, but for the first time in his life he had his own bedroom.
At night, he said, the quiet made him anxious.
“I miss having somebody there.”
“You mean me?”
“Yes.”
“Then call me.”
“It’s not the same.”
I suggested leaving a voice recording, half teasing, half serious.
He rejected the idea.
“That would make it worse.”
Then came the sentence that stayed with me.
“I keep thinking about how much I want someone beside me, and how much I want to be with you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Those shouldn’t be opposite things.”
“They are when you’re in New York.”
I asked him point-blank whether he wanted another girlfriend.
“No.”
“Is there someone else?”
“No.”
“Do you want to break up?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer hurt worse than yes.
Over the weekend, after another circular argument, I finally told him he had to decide. I was not going to spend months auditioning for a relationship I had already been in for two years.
“Think about what you want,” I said. “Then tell me.”
The next morning, he called.
“I want us.”
Relief washed through me so quickly I almost cried.
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“I don’t know. Gut feeling.”
The relief vanished.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to know why you want to stay with me.”
Daniel became defensive. I became upset. Within twenty minutes, the man who had just chosen our relationship announced that maybe what he really needed was a one-week break.
“A break from what?” I asked. “We barely talk.”
“Just space to understand what I’m taking for granted.”
I stared at my phone.
“We live on opposite coasts. You already have space.”
“It’s different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know.”
That phrase again.
I asked the question one final time.
“Daniel, is there another woman?”
“No.”
“If there is, tell me now.”
“There isn’t.”
“If you want to sleep with somebody else, break up with me. Don’t hide behind a break.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
So I agreed to one week.
After we hung up, I sat alone in my apartment feeling foolish and strangely empty. That evening, I remembered something Daniel had mentioned earlier.
His roommates were throwing a huge party.
My sisters immediately said the timing was obvious. My best friend said a man who considered one weekly call oppressive was not asking for freedom from communication; he was asking for freedom from responsibility.
I defended him because that is what you do when your heart is still several steps behind your common sense.
Then, two days into our weeklong break, Daniel sent me a message.
I miss you like crazy. I bought a ticket. I’m flying to New York Friday.
I stared at the screen, confused and hopeful.
For two days I had been preparing myself to lose him.
Instead, he was crossing the country to get me back.
I thought that had to mean something.
It did.
Just not what I hoped.
