The Space Between Us

Do you ever think about how a person is acting toward you, and instead of assuming it's something you did, consider that they might just be having an off week?

This is something that's been on my mind forever. The older I get, the more I realize how much of human behavior is somewhat circumstantial. We catch people in random moments of their lives and somehow convince ourselves we're seeing the full picture. If someone is distant, we assume they're cold. If they're quiet, they're unfriendly. If they're distracted, they're uninterested.

But what if they're just tired? Overwhelmed? Grieving? Stressed? Or simply having one of those weeks where life feels like it's throwing boulders at their head?

Maybe it's just a reminder that there's usually more going on beneath the surface than we'll ever know.

It's probably why I've always tried not to judge people too harshly, especially when I don't know them well. Most of us are reacting to a version of someone that may only exist for a brief moment in time.

This idea popped up recently when I visited an old friend I hadn't seen in nearly a decade.

Naturally, I was a little nervous before I saw them. When you're not part of someone's day-to-day life, you don't really know how they operate. You become a little more careful with what you say. The conversation stays light until one of you eventually breaks the sound barrier and ventures into something deeper.

By the time I arrived that weekend, I was completely frazzled. School finals were around the corner. I barely made it out of the work week. I was navigating a sick parent. My side hustle was picking up. Life had been demanding so much of me that I felt like a phone desperately clinging to 1% of battery.

I wasn't at my sharpest. I wasn't interested in performing. I definitely wasn't bringing my most energetic or creative self to the table.

They got the version of me who happened to survive that week.

The first night, they said something that stuck with me. They told me they always thought I was wholesome and sweet.

I smirked because I knew exactly where that impression came from. In all the years we've known each other, we literally have never talked about anything remotely negative. I generally kept things positive. It's not intentional. It's just the dynamic we have.

As they reflected on the past, they spoke of it with a warmth that caught me off guard. As I listened, I couldn't help but realize we seemed to have different interpretations of the same chapter. The version of me they described felt familiar but also weirdly distant. I felt like they were showing me an old photograph of us, and I thought, "I remember the girl in the photo, but I don't entirely know her anymore."

When we do catch up, it's never a how are you. We tend to connect through music, accomplishments, new projects, and whatever adventure life has taken us on since the last conversation. Neither of us really pushes for more than that. Like most distant, adult friends, it's just the rhythm you naturally mold into over the years.

And there's nothing inherently wrong with that,  but I sometimes wonder how many friendships quietly stay in the lane they've always occupied, not because either person wants it that way, but because neither person thinks to ask a different question to steer the relationship in a different direction.

As the weekend went on, we found ourselves talking about creativity, work, and our futures as individuals. A few of their observations about my life lingered with me, not because I disagreed, but because they touched on things I'd already been asking myself for a few months. It was one of those moments where I realized how much of our internal world remains invisible to the people around us.

I noticed myself becoming quieter than usual. Not because I was uncomfortable. Not necessarily because I felt misunderstood. I was just deep in thought.

As we talked, I realized they were seeing me exactly as I appeared in that moment. Someone a little tired, a little stalled creatively, and still trying to figure out the next move. What they couldn't see were all the things already in motion beneath the surface. The ideas I had been nurturing, the projects I had paused, and the plans I intended to return to once life stopped demanding quite so much of me.

The version of me they were responding to wasn't incomplete. It was simply the version they had access to. The version shaped by our history, our conversations, and the pieces of my life they'd been invited to see. They were seeing the version of me that only exists with them.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that's probably true of all our relationships.

We don't just carry different versions of ourselves.

We carry different versions of each other.

The version of me my coworkers know is different from the version my closest friends know. The version my family knows is different from the version a stranger meets at a coffee shop. Somewhere out there is a person who thinks I'm incredibly quiet, while another person would probably pay money for me to shut the hell up.

Neither would be wrong.

Every relationship reveals something different. Certain conversations get unlocked, certain stories get told, and certain parts of us feel more comfortable stepping forward.

And then there are those rare relationships where very little feels off limits. The people who make you feel safe enough to drop the performance, stop editing yourself, and exist as you are. Around them, your thoughts arrive unfiltered, your weirdness comes out naturally, and the distance between who you are and who you present yourself to be becomes almost nonexistent. Shout out to all my best friends. 

Most relationships live somewhere in between. Not because anyone is withholding, but because every connection creates its own rhythm, its own boundaries, and its own version of us. Maybe most of us are walking around carrying incomplete snapshots of one another.

Maybe that's why grace matters so much.

Not because people are hiding who they are, but because we're rarely seeing the whole picture. We're seeing one version. The version that exists in the space between us.

And sometimes that version is tired. Sometimes it's thriving. Sometimes it's carrying burdens we'll never know about. We've all had moments where someone met us on a bad day and assumed that's who we were.

The truth is a little more complicated than that. People aren't photographs frozen in time.

They're moving targets.

And most of us are doing the best we can with the limited view we've been given of one another. Maybe that's reason enough to lead with a little curiosity before judgment.