I Thought You Needed Space

There are moments when a person comes to mind for no special reason.

Nothing happened.

No news to share.

No important update.

Just a small urge to say something simple — are you there?

So you pick up your phone… and pause.

You check the time.

You imagine what they might be doing.

You open the chat, type a sentence, then delete it.

Not because you don’t want to talk.

Because you don’t want to intrude.

Strangely, the closer someone feels, the more careful you become. You don’t want your presence to feel like a demand. You don’t want them to reply out of obligation. You don’t want to turn a soft connection into a responsibility they must attend to.

So you wait for a “better” moment.

Then you realize there is never a clear signal that a moment is perfect for reaching out. Conversations don’t begin because timing aligns. They begin because someone chooses to cross the silence.

But many people don’t.

Not out of pride.

Out of consideration.

They think:

If they wanted to talk, they would message first.

If they are free, they’ll come.

I don’t want to disturb their peace.

And quietly, two people can miss each other at the same time. Both protecting the other from a disturbance neither would have felt.

What looks like distance is sometimes mutual care.

Because disturbing someone is only possible when your presence is unwelcome. But when you matter to someone, your message rarely interrupts their life  it becomes part of it.

Yet modern communication teaches people to treat attention like a limited resource that must be requested carefully. So affection becomes polite. Warmth becomes scheduled. And spontaneity disappears.

The message remains unsent, not because the feeling wasn’t real, but because respect outweighed impulse.

Sometimes silence between people isn’t emptiness.

It’s two people trying not to be a burden to each other and accidentally becoming strangers for a while.