I rolled over, expecting her to be there. She wasn't. She hadn't been there for two weeks. I thought that was what I wanted. I wasn't used to one girl, the same girl, all the time. It wasn't my thing. Dating had always been a game to me. I stuck it out for as long as I could, but I felt like I was losing myself, my image, my reputation. I felt trapped.

"Mitchie…we've gotta talk."

I had asked her for space. I thought that was nicer than breaking up with her. You know, let her down easy. So I asked her for space.

And now I had it. All the space I wanted. Hell, I found extra space everywhere I looked.

There was extra space in my bed. I was reminded of it every morning when I rolled over, just like I had this morning, and every other morning for the last fourteen days. I still hadn't gotten used to finding it – the space – where she used to be.

And since this morning is just like every morning, I will get out of bed and go to the kitchen, where I'll find more space. Space in the coffee pot, because she always used to make it and I wasn't even sure how to. Space at the table, where she always sat in the same chair and read the New York Times. Space in the fridge, because I don't know how to prepare anything other than Rice Krispies and Pop Tarts. The only place there wasn't space was in the sink – I really need to learn how to use the dishwasher.

And then I'll go into the bathroom and see the space on the counter where her toothbrush used to be. Space where all her bottles of lotion used to be. I will never understand why anyone would need that many different kinds…don't they all do the same thing? Space in the cabinet where she used to keep all her girly things that I don't like talking about. There's even space in the shower now that her shampoos, conditioners, and body washes are gone. What's wrong with using one for everything? They sure did smell good, though.

Once I get out of the shower, I'll go back to my room and find more extra space. In the closet, where her clothes should – I mean, used to be. Space where her shoes used to be – she had about a million pairs. Space in the picture frame on the nightstand; before she left, she took out the picture of us and threw it away. There's space on the top of the dresser, too, where she always used to write me a note telling me to have a good day if she left before me.

After I get ready, I'm going to go to the studio. Something will remind me of her, and I'll flip open my phone and find more space. Space where her name used to be in my phonebook. Space where my inbox normally had a text message from her. Space on the screen where a picture of us used to be the background.

And then I'll drive home, and I'll glance over at the space in the passenger's seat where she used to sit. When I get home…more space. The space in between my arms, where she should – oops, used to be, because the first thing I used to do when I got home was wrap my arms around her waist and press my lips against hers. There was space there, too, since her lips were gone.

Space. What I wanted. Well, what I thought I wanted. So much extra space.

I got exactly what I asked for.

And while I got ready for bed and tried to drift off to sleep, I find a place I wish there was space – in my memory of her…walking out the door.