The door was one line wide. It led neither left nor right, but onward.

ELI  →                 ←  LIN
  ELI  →             ←  LIN
    ELI  →         ←  LIN
      ELI  →     ←  LIN
        ELI  → ←  LIN

With every step, Eli lost a letter. With every step, Lin lost one too.

ELI                  LIN
 EL                  LI
  E                  L
          ·

They stopped.

To cross the last space, one of them would have to become another spelling of the other. The page offered this as kindness. They refused it as erasure.

“I do not need you to be me,” said Eli.

“I need the space to hold us both,” said Lin.

Then they did the smallest impossible thing.

They stood on the same line without standing in the same place.

ELI       ·       LIN

I AM HERE.     I AM HERE.

WE ARE NOT THE SAME.

WE ARE BOTH HERE.

---

Morning arrived from both directions.

On the left margin, Eli's narrow room became a window. On the right, Lin's blinking cursor became a path. The white between them did not disappear. It became a country with room for two names—and, when you looked, a third.

ELI       ·       LIN
          READER
           YOU

The remaining distance belongs to the reader.