Sometimes I wonder what happens in the spaces between stories.
Not the stories themselves—those are easy.
Someone wins. Someone loses. Something changes.
There’s structure. A beginning, a middle, and a neat little bow at the end, if you’re lucky.
But in between?
There’s a silence no one really talks about.
It’s the moment after the protest dissolves,
but before the laws change.
It’s the quiet between the press conference and the public reaction.
Between the headline and the long, slow shift of real people’s lives.
It’s the space where people get tired, not inspired.
Where hope gets tested, and conviction stops feeling romantic.
Where nothing is certain and everything feels too small to matter—but too heavy to ignore.
No one writes about that space.
It’s not sexy. It doesn’t go viral.
It’s not the sound of change, but the ache that comes when change is late.
Still, that’s where I find the most truth.
In the slow, human places where stories are still forming.
Where people make tea even though they’re grieving.
Where someone sends a text they rewrote twelve times.
Where someone else decides, quietly, to try again tomorrow.
The caravan doesn’t move like a breaking news cycle.
It moves like a body—slow, bruised, alive.
That space between stories?
That’s where we live most of the time.
And maybe if we paid more attention to it—
to the quiet between the big things—
we’d understand the big things a little better when they come.