Unspoken Distance

After Thanksgiving, November lingered with a chill across campus, as if it couldn’t find a way out.   Zoe stood in line at the café, her mind far from the menu board. She scrolled through her phone, checking again and again — had Laurence returned from Atlanta? No messages. Only when the barista called her name did she look up, as if suddenly awakened. “Uh… chocolate muffin, and black coffee.” She spoke quickly, afraid to think any further. While paying, her phone lit up.

Hi Zoe. I’m back.   I’ll go jogging at lunchtime. If you’d like, I’ll be at the Nunu Statue at 12:40 for lunch.

She stared at the message, her heartbeat nudged gently forward. She hadn’t brought her workout clothes, but she knew she would go.

The path toward the woods was unusually quiet. Zoe changed into leather boots and stepped through the damp, cold leaves toward the Nunu Statue. The wind brushed past her face, as if reminding her of something…

She thought of the silence during the holiday, the cold air at the dinner table, the children’s noise, and Matt’s absence. The air at the Thanksgiving table had been as cold as freshly wiped glass. The smell of turkey still hung in the air, but Zoe couldn’t swallow a thing. Matt’s father talked endlessly, his mother smiled and nodded, the children squirmed in their chairs.

“Zoe, what have you been busy with lately?” “Teaching. Writing.” “What kind of writing? Love stories?”

Zoe swallowed. “No. I want to write a story about women.”

Matt’s father chuckled. “A story about women without love? What’s there to write about?”

Matt laughed too. That laughter felt like a thin needle. Zoe’s face warmed slightly.

“Women care about more than love.” “Oh? Like what?” Matt’s tone sounded like a test. “Achievement. Creativity. Understanding the world…”

Matt gently shook his head.

“Creativity is just neurons misfiring,” Matt said, in the authoritative tone of a neurosurgeon. Zoe froze. “You mean… chaos?” “Irrational, illogical, purposeless,” Matt said. “Like dreams.”

Her fingers trembled slightly under the table. “I disagree. Creativity is the most fascinating part of being human.”

Matt’s father laughed too. “I see plenty of creativity in my dementia patients,” he said, deliberately reminding everyone that he was also a neurologist.

That laughter felt like a dull knife, slowly cutting through her pride. She lowered her head and carved the turkey for the children. All evening, she felt as if she were sitting at a table that didn’t belong to her.

When the outline of the Nunu Statue appeared between the treetops, her heart suddenly felt lighter. Laurence was sitting on a large rock by the river, watching the water. He didn’t look up until she approached, as if touched by something gentle.

“Hi, Laurence.” Her voice was soft, as though afraid to disturb him. He startled slightly, almost slipping off the rock. “Oh—hi, Zoe. Sorry, I’ve already eaten. Cold weather makes me hungry faster.”

He smiled, and the warmth rose slowly from his eyes. Zoe sat beside him. Words caught in her chest, refusing to come out. A thin light shimmered on the river’s surface, as if ice were about to form again. Laurence kept staring at it.

Finally, she spoke. “You asked me here because you wanted to say something, didn’t you?” He turned toward her, as if called back. “Yes… I was just thinking how to say it.”

He talked about Atlanta, the presentation, Professor Bin, the slides without his name. About that feeling of being used, yet unsure if he was misunderstanding. Zoe listened, something inside her gently stirred.

“That’s not normal,” she said slowly. “It’s natural to feel uneasy.” Laurence nodded, as if someone had finally untangled the knot in his chest.

“When the media invited me, I didn’t ask him. Maybe he thought I disrespected him.” There was a childlike confusion in his eyes. “This is politics,” Zoe said.

He looked at her, as if hearing the word for the first time. “You just want to do your job well. But he’s thinking about power.”

The wind blew from the river, carrying the taste of ice. “Let’s go,” she said.

He stood, showing a quiet, sincere smile. “I need to return some books.”

That night, Zoe received a message from Laurence: Would you like to jog with me weekly? Same time every week?

She looked at the plate Matt had left behind, the dinner gone cold. Something in her heart suddenly lit up.

Yes, Laurence. I don’t see why not.   Her fingers danced across the keyboard. A long‑lost sense of anticipation rose within her.

The wind around the Nunu Statue was colder than usual. Zoe, wrapped in a down jacket, saw Laurence already waiting. “It’s cold today,” he said with a smile. “But you’ll feel warm after the run.” “I just hope I won’t get too hungry,” she laughed. “I brought two sandwiches.” He pointed to the bag, as if revealing a small surprise.

When sunlight fell across his face, Zoe noticed for the first time the faint scar beneath his right eye — as though it hid a story. She didn’t ask.

The running path was dry and wide, flanked by thick woods. Nothing but the sound of footsteps. Zoe could hear her own heartbeat.

Twenty minutes later, they returned to the statue. “We made a full loop?” “Yes.” “You’re not sweating at all?” “I don’t sweat much,” he said naturally.

At lunch, Zoe finished her sandwich in five minutes, but couldn’t help glancing at his — still half‑uneaten. Laurence ate slowly, neatly. He wiped his mouth after every bite. Not a single crumb fell. She suddenly found him a little endearing.

“Have you decided to report him?” “No,” he said without hesitation. She felt a flicker of disappointment, but understood. “Whatever you decide, I’ll support you,” she said.

Laurence looked at her, his eyes calm and sincere. “Thank you, Zoe. I value our friendship very much.”

Her cheeks flushed. On the way back, the wind was colder than before. The wet leaves were slippery, the ground shimmering with scattered light. Zoe was still thinking about what he had just said, her thoughts drifting for a moment. Her foot slipped— and her body pitched forward.

Laurence caught her arm quickly, his grip so firm that her skin bruised in an instant. Her vision blurred for a moment. All she could see was the faint scar beneath his eye, gleaming like a thin line of gold in the shadow.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low and steady. “I’m fine… just startled,” she gasped.

He walked her slowly back to campus. At two o’clock, she returned to her office and realized her arm was swollen, as if struck by a stone. She didn’t tell him. She just took a painkiller and fell asleep in her chair.

In her dream, she and Laurence were having a picnic in the woods. He looked at her — silent, gentle. She asked, “Say something. Not theory, not trees. Something else.” He didn’t answer, only smiled. That smile was like a star in the night sky — quiet, deep, and impossible not to approach.

When she woke, it was already dark. Her father had texted to say the children were staying with him tonight. Matt hadn’t sent a message.

Zoe put down her phone and looked around her small office. It was the only place on campus where she could truly breathe — books, teacup, students’ drafts, and the story she still hadn’t finished. She taught creative writing, taught her students to find their voices, yet often felt her own voice pressed too tightly by life.

She rubbed the bruise on her arm. At least she could still feel.

Outside, the sky darkened quickly. She packed her things and walked home slowly. Winter nights were always hard. Matt would surely stay at the hospital again. The room was too large, too cold.

She thought of Laurence’s hand, his voice, his sandwiches, his scar. And of what he had said: I value our friendship very much.

She held herself, as if holding a secret that had just been lit.

(Editorial note: Adapted from the Francis Rainclay.'s second novel.)