In The Between

✧･Chapter 15 This Time

The brush drags too slowly across the canvas, the stroke heavier than I mean it to be. I stop halfway through, staring at it, already knowing it's wrong. It doesn't fit, none of this does - and I can feel the frustration building, dull and persistent, sitting just under my skin.

I try to fix it anyway, lifting my hand again, but I hesitate before the bristles ever touch the surface. My grip tightens, then loosens, and after a second, I just... stop.

It's not working. It hasn't been working.

I let out a quiet breath and take a step back, forcing myself to actually look at the painting, but the longer I stare at it, the less I see. The colors blur together, the shapes lose meaning, and it all just becomes noise, something distant and unimportant.

Because my mind won't stay here. It keeps pulling me back to that night, over and over again, like I'm stuck in it.

The gallery. The conversation. Claire.

My chest tightens as the memory settles in, clearer than I want it to be.

I can see her exactly as she was, standing there like nothing was wrong, like everything was fine.

She smiled when she was supposed to, said the right things, held herself together in that controlled, effortless way she always does.

Anyone else would've believed it.

But I didn't and I saw the moment it changed.

The second my mother started talking, something in Claire shifted - so small most people wouldn't notice, but I did.

I always do. Her posture went just a little too still, her shoulders just slightly rigid, like she was bracing for something she didn't understand yet.

Her eyes didn't move as much after that, like she was trying too hard to stay present and already slipping out of it at the same time.

And then she got quiet and that's what keeps replaying in my head.

Claire doesn't go quiet. Not like that. She always has something to say, something sharp, something teasing, something thoughtful. She fills the space without even trying.

But that night... she didn't.

It was like watching her disappear in real time, like she was pulling everything inward, holding it so tightly that nothing could get out.

And I remember standing there, listening to my mother, knowing something was wrong but not stopping it, not stepping in, not doing anything except watching it happen.

Watching her. My jaw tightens as I look at the canvas, but I'm not seeing it anymore. I'm seeing her.

Because it wasn't even the conversation itself that stays with me the most. It was after. That one second when she looked at me.

It was quick, so quick anyone else would've missed it, but I didn't. I couldn't.

I saw it hit her. The realization, sudden and heavy, like something had just slammed into place whether she was ready for it or not. And underneath it, clear as anything no matter how much she tried to hide it, was the hurt.

God, she looked hurt. Not confused, not just uncomfortable.

Hurt. Like something had finally made sense in the worst possible way.

My throat tightens as I swallow, my hand lowering slowly to my side, the brush still hanging loosely between my fingers.

I can still see it so clearly, the way her expression barely changed but everything underneath it did.

The way her eyes softened just enough to give her away, just enough for me to see what she was trying so hard to keep contained.

She thought she hid it, but she didn't. Not from me.

And that's what's been sitting in my chest ever since, heavy and unrelenting, because I know exactly what she saw in that moment. I know exactly what she understood. I just didn't think she'd have to learn it like that.

I didn't think it would be me standing there while it happened and I didn't think I would be the reason she looked at me like that.

My grip finally loosens and the brush slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a soft clatter, but I don't move to pick it up. I can't seem to make myself move at all. Because after that, everything about her changed.

It was subtle and controlled. Anyone else would've missed it.

But I didn't.

Her voice got softer, but not in a gentle way - in a careful way, like she was holding it steady by force.

She stopped reaching, stopped pushing, stopped trying to pull anything out of me.

It was like she'd already decided something, like she was already stepping back before I even realized what was happening.

Like she was letting me go... and I let her. That's the part that won't leave me alone. I let her stand there, let her carry that realization on her own, let her walk away without stopping her, without saying anything that mattered. No explanation, no argument, no fight... just silence.

Just me, doing what I always do. Nothing.

I stare at the canvas again, but my vision blurs, and it has nothing to do with the paint this time. My chest feels too tight, like there's something sitting there that I can't swallow down no matter how hard I try.

I haven't been able to get that look out of my head.

It follows me into every quiet moment, every time I try to work, every second I let myself think about her for too long - which is all the time, whether I want it to be or not.

Claire, standing there, realizing something I've known my entire life.

And it broke something in her. I saw it and I felt it, and I hate that I was the one who put it there. I told myself it was the right thing, that keeping my distance, not letting this become something bigger, something harder, was what I was supposed to do.

I've been telling myself that over and over again. But it doesn't feel right. Not when I can still see her like that, not when I know that look wasn't just hurt...

It was heartbreak, and it was because of me.

The silence stretches until it feels suffocating, thick and un-moving, like the air itself has settled too heavy in my lungs. I don't move from where I'm standing, don't pick the brush back up, don't try to fix what's in front of me. There's no point. I'm not here, not really.

I'm still there, still watching her and still seeing that look on her face.

My phone rings, cutting straight through the quiet, sharp enough to make me flinch. I blink, like I've been pulled out of something too deep too fast, and for a second I just stare at it across the room.

I force myself to move, grabbing it off the table without thinking too much about it. Helena's name flashes across the screen, and I answer automatically, falling into something familiar.

"Hey," I say, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, already half turning back toward the canvas even though I know I'm not going to touch it. "What's up? You need me to take the kids tonight or-"

"Mae."

I stop.

Because something in her voice is wrong. Not panicked, not exactly, but too careful, too measured, like she's choosing her words before she's even said them.

I straighten slowly, my hand going still at my side. "What?" I ask, quieter now. "What's going on?"

There's a pause, and I can hear her shift on the other end, like she's standing, like she can't sit still with whatever this is.

"It's Claire."

Everything in me locks up and my grip tightens around the phone, my pulse kicking up instantly, and I hate how fast my mind goes straight to the worst possible place.

"What about her?" I ask, and my voice doesn't sound like mine.

"She left work," Helena says, and there's something softer underneath it now, something almost cautious. "In a rush. Hallie called... her grandma had a bad fall. They're at the hospital downtown."

For a second, everything just... stops.

Claire's grandma.

I close my eyes, my chest pulling tight in a way that has nothing to do with the gallery, nothing to do with me. Because I know what that means. I know what she means to her.

I've seen it and heard it in the way Claire talks about her, softer than she talks about anyone else. The only person she's never guarded with, never held back from. Her whole world, wrapped up in one person.

"Mae?" Helena's voice pulls me back.

"Yeah," I manage, dragging a hand over my face, already pacing without realizing it. "Yeah, I'm here."

There's another pause, heavier this time.

Then, carefully, "I need you to go to her."

I stop mid-step.

"What?" I ask, my brows pulling together, the word automatic, even though something in my chest has already reacted.

"She's not going to let anyone in right now," Helena continues, a little more firmly now, like she's already thought this through.

"If I show up, she'll just get mad. You know she will.

She'll shut down or push me out, and I don't-" she exhales softly, frustrated.

"I don't want her dealing with this alone. "

My grip tightens around the phone.

"Helena-"

"You're the only one she won't push away," she says, cutting me off, and there's no hesitation in it, no doubt. "She might act like she will, she might get pissed, but she won't. Not really. Not with you."

I let out a quiet breath, my chest tightening again, but for a different reason now.

"You don't know that," I say, but it's weaker than I want it to be, because I'm not even sure I believe it.

"I do," Helena says gently. "Mae... she needs someone who isn't going to let her shut everything out."

My jaw tightens, my gaze dropping to the floor as her words settle in deeper than I want them to.

"What makes you think that I'd be the way she won't push away?" I ask softly and I can hear Helena sigh softly.

"Do you really want me to answer that right now?" Helena says, causing me to close my eyes.

"She loves her grandma more than anything," Helena adds quietly. "If something's wrong... she's not going to handle it well. You know that."

I swallow hard, my thoughts pulling in too many directions at once, every instinct I've relied on for years telling me to stay out of it, to keep my distance, to not make this worse.

But all I can see is her. That look and the hurt. And the idea of her sitting in a hospital, carrying something like this by herself...

"No," I say suddenly, more to myself than to Helena, already moving toward the door. "No, she's not doing that alone."

There's a small shift on the other end of the line, something like relief.

"Okay," Helena says softly.

I grab my keys, my heart beating too fast now, my chest tight with something I don't want to name but can't ignore.

"She might not want me there," I admit, quieter now, even as I'm already pulling my jacket on.

"She does," Helena says.

I let out a breath, shaking my head slightly. "I'm going," I say instead.

"Thank you."

I don't respond to that. I can't. Because this doesn't feel like something that deserves thanks. It feels like something I should've done a long time ago. I hang up, the silence rushing back in, but it doesn't stick this time. It doesn't have the chance.

Because I'm already out the door, already moving, already heading straight for her and the door shuts behind me, and for a second I just stand there, hand still on the handle like I might turn back.

Like that's still an option, and it should be.

It's what I've been doing for years, isn't it? Taking a step forward, then two back. Letting her get close just long enough to remember what it feels like, and then pulling away before it can become something I have to explain. Something I can't undo.

I've gotten good at it. Good at pretending distance is the right thing, that it's better for her. My grip tightens, jaw clenching as I force myself down the steps.

Because if that were true, she wouldn't have looked like that that night at the gallery.

She wouldn't have walked out of that gallery like she was barely holding it together, like something inside her had finally given out. And I wouldn't be standing here now, feeling like I'm about to crawl out of my own skin because I let her leave like that.

Because I didn't go after her.

Again.

A quiet, frustrated breath leaves me as I reach my car, unlocking it a little harder than necessary. I tell myself there were reasons. There are always reasons. Too complicated, too messy, too much history sitting between us, too many things I don't know how to fix.

But standing here now, they all feel way too thin. Like excuses I've been hiding behind because they're easier than the truth.

I slide into the driver's seat, shutting the door, the sound loud in the quiet. For a moment, I just sit there, staring straight ahead, my reflection faint in the windshield.

I've spent years convincing myself that keeping my distance was the right thing to do. That if I stayed back, if I didn't let myself want too much, I wouldn't ruin whatever was left between us.

My fingers curl slightly against the steering wheel.

And maybe that's true. Maybe I have been protecting her, but it doesn't change this. Doesn't change the fact that the second I heard she wasn't okay, none of that mattered. Not the distance, not the boundaries, not the careful space I've been trying to keep between us.

None of it even slowed me down. I didn't think, didn't hesitate... I just went.

A humorless huff escapes me, my head tipping back briefly against the seat. "Yeah," I murmur to myself, under my breath. "You're doing a great job staying away."

The words feel hollow the second they leave my mouth, because the truth is, I don't think I've ever really left.

Not where it really counts.

My grip tightens again, something quieter settling in my chest now, something heavily and I start the car and this time...

This time, I don't hesitate.