The Space Between

Maya pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the train window, watching the city blur past in streaks of gray and amber. Forty-three years old, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd done something just because she wanted to.

The realization had hit her last Tuesday during her annual physical. Dr. Patel had asked her routine questions—sleep, exercise, stress—and then paused. "What do you do for fun, Maya?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. Maya had opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. She managed her mother's medical appointments. She coached her daughter's debate team. She'd just been promoted to senior director, which meant evening calls with the London office. But fun?

"I... read?" she'd offered weakly.

Dr. Patel had smiled kindly. "When was the last time you finished a book?"

Maya still didn't have an answer.

Now, stepping off the train at Clark Street, she felt the familiar weight of her responsibilities settle back onto her shoulders. Groceries. Mom's pharmacy pickup. Review the deck for tomorrow's presentation. Her phone buzzed with a text from her sister: Can you take Mom to her cardiology appointment Friday? I have a work thing.

Always a work thing. Always something.

The neighborhood coffee shop—her only real indulgence—beckoned from the corner. Inside, the barista greeted her with a smile. "The usual?"

Maya nodded, wondering when "the usual" had become the story of her life. While she waited, she noticed the community board plastered with flyers. Yoga studios. Book clubs. Painting classes. Pottery workshops. Each one promised transformation, community, joy.

Who has time for pottery? she thought. Then caught herself. Wasn't that exactly the problem?

"Maya?" The barista held out her latte. "You okay?"

"Do you have a hobby?" Maya blurted out.

The young woman laughed. "Random question, but yeah. I collect vintage postcards. Started when my grandmother died—she had this shoebox full of them. Now I spend Sunday mornings at estate sales."

"How do you find the time?"

"I make it." She shrugged. "Life's too short not to, right?"

Maya carried those words home like a stone in her pocket. Life's too short. She'd heard it before, usually at funerals or after someone's cancer diagnosis. But what did it mean for a random Tuesday? For someone who wasn't dying, just... diminishing?

That evening, after her mother was settled and her daughter was deep in calculus homework, Maya did something unusual. She sat down at her laptop without opening her email.

She typed: "hobbies for beginners."

The internet exploded with possibilities. Gardening. Photography. Knitting. Calligraphy. Learning languages. Playing instruments. Birdwatching. Geocaching. Each click led to another rabbit hole of supplies to buy, skills to master, communities to join.

It was overwhelming. Maya closed the laptop.

But the question wouldn't leave her alone. Over the next few days, it followed her everywhere. At the grocery store, she found herself lingering by the magazines—gardening, cooking, crafts. On her lunch break, she watched people in the park. A man doing tai chi. A woman sketching by the fountain. Teenagers practicing parkour off the benches.

Everyone seemed to have found their thing. Everyone except her.

Friday morning, taking her mother to the cardiologist, Maya noticed something. The waiting room had a puzzle table—a half-finished landscape of the Grand Canyon. An elderly man sat there, carefully sorting edge pieces.

"Do you mind?" Maya asked, gesturing to the empty chair.

"Please." He slid the box toward her.

They worked in comfortable silence. Maya found herself searching for a piece of blue sky, turning options in her hand, testing fits. When one clicked into place, she felt a small spark of satisfaction.

"I haven't done a puzzle in thirty years," she said.

The man smiled. "They're still here, waiting."

After the appointment, Maya stopped at a thrift store. In the back, mixed among the dusty board games, she found it: a 500-piece puzzle of the Chicago skyline. Six dollars.

That night, she cleared the dining room table—that space that had become a dumping ground for mail and her daughter's backpack—and opened the box. The smell of old cardboard rose up, triggering a memory so sharp it made her chest ache. She was twelve, at her grandmother's kitchen table, working on puzzles during summer visits. The quiet concentration. The small triumphs. The way time seemed to slow down and become fuller somehow.

When had she stopped?

"Mom, what are you doing?" Zoe appeared in the doorway, looking genuinely confused.

"A puzzle." Maya dumped the pieces onto the table. "Want to help?"

Zoe hesitated, then sat down. "Is this for work or something?"

"No." The word felt revolutionary. "It's just for me."

They sorted edges together, Zoe explaining her day between pieces. Maya's mother shuffled in, peering over their shoulders. "Is that the Willis Tower? I used to work right there before you were born."

Soon they were all around the table, three generations, building something that didn't matter and mattered completely.

Maya worked on the puzzle every night that week. Some nights for ten minutes, some for an hour. She found herself thinking about it at work, planning which section to tackle next. The puzzle didn't care about her job title or her to-do list. It just existed, piece by piece, waiting for her attention.

It wasn't meditation or yoga or painting. It was just a puzzle. But it was hers.

On Sunday morning, she placed the final piece—a window reflecting Lake Michigan. She sat back, feeling something unfamiliar bloom in her chest. Not accomplishment exactly. Something quieter. Space. Her own space, carved out piece by piece from a life that had nearly convinced her there was none left to find.

Her phone buzzed. Her sister, asking if she could cover another appointment.

Maya looked at the completed puzzle, then at the community board photo she'd snapped at the coffee shop. The pottery class met Thursday nights.

"Let me check my calendar," she texted back. "I might have something."

She did. She finally did.