The Space Between Us
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 2
What We Don’t Say
The text came at 2:47 AM: Can we talk?
Kiko stared at her phone in the darkness of Anna’s dorm room, her friend snoring softly in the bed across from her. She’d barely slept, running the kiss through her mind over and over like a film loop. The softness of Rin’s lips, the small sound she’d made, the way her fingers had tightened on Kiko’s wrist like she was afraid to let go.
I didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to pull away.
Her hands shook as she typed: Yes. Where?
Our room. I’m here.
Kiko sat up, her heart hammering. Anna stirred but didn’t wake as Kiko grabbed her shoes and coat, slipping out into the hallway as quietly as she could. The dormitory was silent at this hour, just the hum of heating vents and the distant sound of music from someone’s room down the hall.
She stood outside their door for a full minute, trying to steady her breathing. Then she used her key and slipped inside.
Rin was sitting on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, still wearing the same clothes from the restaurant. She looked exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. The lamp on her desk cast long shadows across the room, and Kiko noticed her sister had been crying—tissues scattered on the comforter, her face blotchy and raw.
“Hi,” Kiko said softly, closing the door behind her.
“Hi.” Rin’s voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry for texting so late.”
“It’s okay. I wasn’t sleeping anyway.”
Kiko stayed by the door, maintaining distance. The room that had felt small all semester now seemed cavernous, the space between their beds a gulf she didn’t know how to cross. She noticed details she’d never paid attention to before—the way Rin had arranged her books by color rather than subject, the small collection of coffee mugs on her desk (all gifts from Kiko over the years), the framed photo of them from their parents’ wedding day when they’d been so young and everything had been simple.
“I’ve been thinking,” Rin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “About what you said. About what happened. About—” She gestured vaguely toward the space between them. “Everything.”
Kiko waited, her heart beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. She focused on breathing, on staying present, on not letting hope overwhelm caution.
Rin pulled her knees tighter to her chest, making herself smaller. It was a posture Kiko recognized—Rin retreating inward when emotions got too big, too complicated. She’d done the same thing when their parents had announced the engagement, when her grandmother had died, when she’d broken up with her first boyfriend.
“I don’t know how to say this,” Rin said finally. “I’ve been rehearsing it in my head for hours and it still doesn’t make sense.”
“You don’t have to have it all figured out,” Kiko offered gently. “Just ... tell me what you’re feeling. Whatever it is.”
Rin looked up, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I’m terrified.”
The word hung in the air between them, raw and honest.
“Of me?” Kiko asked, her stomach dropping.
“No. Never of you.” Rin shook her head quickly. “Of this. Of what it means. Of losing you if I get this wrong.”
Kiko took a tentative step forward, then another, until she was close enough to sit on the edge of her own bed, facing Rin across the small space. “You’re not going to lose me.”
“You can’t promise that.” Rin’s voice cracked. “If we—if we try this and it doesn’t work, how do we come back from that? We live in the same house. We share the same family. Our parents are married, Kiko. We can’t just break up and never see each other again like normal couples do.”
“We’re not a couple,” Kiko said softly, even though the words hurt. “We’re not anything yet. You kissed me back, but that doesn’t mean—”
“I wanted to keep kissing you.” The words tumbled out of Rin in a rush, like she had to say them before she lost her nerve. “When you pulled away, when you deepened the kiss, I wanted—God, Kiko, I wanted to crawl across that table and never stop. And that scared me so much I couldn’t breathe.”
Kiko’s hands gripped the edge of her mattress, holding on for dear life. “Why did it scare you?”
Rin was quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands. When she spoke again, her voice was so soft Kiko had to lean forward to hear her.
“Because I’ve been telling myself for years that what I feel for you is normal. That everyone loves their sister this much. That it’s natural to think about you all the time, to need to know where you are and if you’re happy, to feel like something’s missing when you’re not around.” She finally looked up, and the vulnerability in her eyes made Kiko’s chest ache. “But tonight, when you kissed me, I couldn’t pretend anymore. Because sisters don’t feel like that when they kiss.”
“How did it feel?” Kiko asked, barely breathing.
“Like coming home,” Rin whispered. “And like stepping off a cliff. Both at the same time.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of Rin’s confession settling between them. Kiko wanted to reach out, to close the distance, but something held her back. This was Rin’s moment, Rin’s realization. She needed to come to it in her own time.
“I need to figure out what I’m feeling,” Rin said. “Not what I think I should be feeling, or what makes sense, or what’s safe. What I actually feel when I look at you and you look back at me like—like you’re doing right now.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like I hung the moon.” Rin’s voice broke on the words. “Like I’m the only person in the world who matters. You’ve been looking at me like that for years, haven’t you? And I just ... I didn’t let myself see it.”
“I tried to hide it,” Kiko admitted.
“I know. But I think part of me knew anyway. And I—” Rin took a shaky breath. “I think I’ve been looking at you the same way. I just called it something else. Something safer.”
Hope flared in Kiko’s chest, dangerous and bright. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t know yet.” Rin wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m saying I need time to sort through six years of feelings I’ve been mislabeling. I’m saying I think—I think you might be right. About us. About this. But I need to be sure before we...” She gestured helplessly. “Before we change everything.”
Kiko nodded slowly, understanding even as disappointment washed through her. “Okay. Take all the time you need.”
“You’re going to stay at Anna’s?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Rin was quiet for a moment, then shook her head. “No. I don’t—I don’t want you to go. I just need ... I need us to be careful. While I figure this out.”
“Careful how?”
“No more kissing. Not until I know what I’m feeling.” Rin’s voice was firmer now, like she was setting boundaries for herself as much as for Kiko. “No crossing lines we can’t uncross. But I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want space from you. I just need ... time to think while we’re still us.”
“Okay,” Kiko said, even though every fiber of her being wanted to protest. She understood, though. Rin needed to sort through her feelings without the confusion of physical intimacy, without the pressure of reciprocation. “We’ll be us. Just ... us.”
“Can we do that?” Rin asked. “Can we go back to normal after what happened tonight?”
Kiko looked at her sister—her stepsister, her roommate, the girl she’d loved since she was twelve years old—and knew the truth. “No. We can’t go back. But we can go forward. Slowly. Carefully. Whatever you need.”
Rin’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me for loving you,” Kiko said softly. “That’s like thanking the sun for rising.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Rin’s face. “You always know the right thing to say.”
“I’ve had six years to practice.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the tension slowly bleeding out of the room. Finally, Rin glanced at the clock on her nightstand—3:18 AM—and yawned.
“We should sleep,” she said. “Finals are in two days.”
“I doubt either of us will sleep much.”
“Probably not.” Rin uncurled from her position, stretching out on her bed. “But we can try.”
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