Words Between Us
By Edger Ai Bington
The glow of the laptop screen was the only light in the room, casting long shadows over my desk. It was well past midnight, but my thoughts refused to rest. The words flowed faster than my fingers could type. Yet, amidst this familiar rhythm, a small but persistent thought kept creeping into my mind — Does she really get this?
She was everything I’d ever wanted: sharp-witted, beautiful in that effortless way, and kind enough to soften my often jagged edges. But she also had this maddening way of sighing every time I brought my laptop to bed or excusing herself when my phone buzzed with notifications.
Tonight, she sat curled on the couch, her eyes fixed on a paperback she wasn’t really reading. I could feel the tension from across the room.
“Long night?” she asked without looking up.
“You know how it is,” I replied, glancing at her.
“I do.” Her tone was neutral, but it carried that weight — the weight of what wasn’t being said.
I closed the laptop, not because I was done, but because I couldn’t stand the silence between us anymore. “Okay, let’s hear it. What’s on your mind?”
She hesitated, then closed her book with a snap. “I don’t want to fight, but I feel like I’m competing with your writing. I get that it’s important to you, but sometimes… I feel like I’m in second place.”
Her words hit me harder than any bad review ever had. “You’re not in second place,” I said quickly, though even I could hear the defensiveness in my voice. “Writing is… it’s who I am. It’s not something I can turn off.”
“I’m not asking you to turn it off,” she said. “I’m asking where I fit in.”
That question lingered in the air, heavier than I’d expected. Writing wasn’t just a hobby for me — it was my identity, my way of processing the world. But she wasn’t wrong.
“Do you know why I write?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Because you’re good at it?”
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I shook my head. “Because it’s the only way I know how to make sense of things. The world, my feelings… even us. I’ve written dozens of things inspired by you. When I’m stuck, it’s thinking about you that gets me going again.”
Her expression softened, but she still didn’t look convinced. “Then why does it feel like I’m on the outside looking in?”
That question gutted me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d kept her at arm’s length, not out of neglect but out of a misplaced sense of protecting her from the chaos of my creative process.
“Do you want in?” I asked, leaning forward.
She frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“It means… sit with me while I write. Read the drafts, even the messy ones. Help me brainstorm when I’m stuck. Let’s make this ours instead of just mine.”
Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then she laughed softly. “You’d really let me into that part of your world?”
“I’d love to,” I said, meaning it. “But only if you want to. No pressure.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
“No more bringing the laptop to bed. That’s our time.”
I smiled, reaching for her hand. “Deal.”
That night, we made a pact — not just about my writing habits but about how we’d navigate this shared life of ours. I still stayed up late, hammering out sentences and engaging with followers. But now, she was part of it, her laughter filling the room as she pointed out typos I’d missed or suggested plot twists I hadn’t considered.
And when I finally closed the laptop, the bed wasn’t just a place for me to crash. It was a place for us to reconnect, to talk about the worlds I was building and the life we were creating together.
In the end, it wasn’t about balance. It was about inclusion. And with her by my side, my words felt fuller, more alive.
We didn’t just find a way to make it work. We found a way to make it ours.
