We sat in looming silence. The liminal space between us wasn’t big, but it felt like a great chasm. One stretching out through space, its fingertips softly brushing each of us at the edge. The unspoken words mixed and clashed with the ones just yelled. The spoken words building walls between us while the unspoken ones tried to break those walls. All they needed was to be whispered, then they would break slow yet sure cracks in the walls that were liminal space and spoken words. Yet, however much they wanted, needed to be whispered, they stayed unspoken. Maybe that was the biggest mistake we had made that night. Not fighting, not speaking words that took eachothers love and engraved a permanent mark, like one of a stonemason engraving upon a headstone. The biggest mistake was not trying to fix the wound that thé liminal space kept reminding us about. The liminal space was all we had left of eachother, and the unspoken words. Those words would haunt our every waking thought if left unsaid. At night they would plague our dreams, reminding us of the mistake we made. However, if they were simply uttered, they could help mend the wound. All we needed to do was turn to eachother and break through the liminal space. To reach out and speak the unspoken, to mend, to repair. To turn the engraved headstone into a plaque of promise. Instead we continued to sit there, immersed in the liminal space between us.