Three weeks later, Wren came over.
We had spent time together before. That wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was the silence.
We sat on opposite ends of my couch while rain tapped against the windows. Some terrible movie played on the television, ignored by both of us.
Wren's feet were tucked beneath her.
Mine were planted firmly on the floor because apparently I believed proper posture could save my friendship.
“You've been weird,” she said.
My stomach dropped. “I'm always weird.”
“Different weird.”
“Very scientific.”
She turned toward me. “Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“Then why do I feel like you're leaving?”
That hurt more than it should have.
“I'm right here.”
“That's not what I mean.”
I looked at her.
She looked back.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Her hand rested on the cushion between us.
Mine was inches away.
That was all.
A few inches.
An entire marriage.
A friendship I couldn't imagine losing.
A life that wasn't mine to rearrange.
Wren's fingers moved.
So did mine.
Then her phone rang.
We both pulled back like we'd been caught doing something, even though nothing had happened.
She looked at the screen.
I didn't need to ask who it was.
“I should take this.”
“Of course.”
Wren stood and walked into the kitchen.
I stared at the empty space she'd left beside me.
That night I wrote number thirty.
Wren,
Today I learned that almost has a physical shape.
It's the distance between two hands on a couch.