Mind The Gap...And the Gab

“The ideal book allows the reader to fill in the gaps, to bring their own imagination to the white spaces between the words.” — Italo Calvino

Calvino was talking about the art of storytelling on the page, but he could’ve just as easily been talking about what we see on the screen too—whether that’s in a theater, on the telly, or on our phones. What Calvino’s getting at is this simple but powerful idea: Great stories—the ones that stay with us, that stir something deep—don’t spell everything out for us. It’s not just the words themselves, but the spaces around them—the pauses, the glances, the things left hanging—that do the storytelling.

In books, that “white space" gives readers room to imagine and engage. On screen, that space shows up in the images, pauses, and the interplay between sound and silence. Some of the most powerful moments in film stick with us not because of what’s said, but because of what’s left unsaid.

Take Past Lives (2022), for example. The final scene between Nora and Hae Sung is quiet, almost painfully so. They’re sitting together on a bench, saying very little. But in that silence, you feel everything—the longing, the history, the “what could’ve been” between them.  Words would fall short, but their silence speaks volumes.

The final scene of the Series Succession (2023) works the same way. When Kendall walks away from the water, there’s no big speech, no emotional breakdown. It’s just him, walking in silence. And that silence? It says everything about the loss of power, family, and any hope for redemption. Sometimes, what’s not said is what hits hardest.

For good measure, here’s a third example. This time, let’s take a look at two versions of the same moment. In this Act 1 scene, a daughter visits her father in hospital.

VERSION 1                                                                                                                          

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – NIGHT

NAOMI (35) sits beside her father, ROBERT (80), frail and hooked up to monitors. He stares at the ceiling. The heart monitor beeps softly. A clock ticks in the background.

NAOMI

Dad, I know we’ve had our differences, but I want you to know that I forgive you. You weren’t always there for me when I needed you, and it hurt. But I realize now that you did the best you could.

ROBERT

I regret a lot, Naomi. I wasn’t a perfect father. I wish I could go back and change things.

NAOMI

I just want you to know that I love you.

ROBERT

I love you too, sweetheart.

(Naomi wipes away a tear. Robert squeezes her hand. We hear the steady beeping of the heart monitor.)

END SCENE

VERSION 2                                                                                                            

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – NIGHT                                                                                     

NAOMI (35) sits beside her father, ROBERT (80), frail and hooked up to monitors. He stares at the ceiling. The heart monitor beeps softly. A clock ticks in the background. They sit in silence.

Naomi shifts in her seat—tense, uncertain. Her hands twist in her lap. She looks at him, then away. Finally, she reaches out, adjusts the blanket at his feet. A small careful and familiar gesture.

Robert doesn’t look at her. His jaw tightens.

She stands.

NAOMI

I wasn’t sure I’d come.

She hesitates, then gives his hand a quick and firm squeeze. As she walks toward the door

ROBERT

(quietly)

You always show up, in the end.

Naomi stops. She opens her mouth to say something, but then instead, after a beat —she walks out.

Robert stares at the door. His fingers flex slightly, but he stays still. The beeping continues.

END SCENE

In the first version, every emotion is clearly spelled out in dialogue. We’re told that Naomi and Robert have a difficult history, that there’s regret, forgiveness, and love between them. It’s heartfelt, but it doesn’t leave much room for interpretation. Everything is explained, leaving the audience with little to wonder about or emotionally unpack.

The second version pulls back. The dialogue is minimal, but the emotional undercurrents are just as strong—if not stronger. Through silence, gesture, and timing, we still feel the weight of their history and the love between them. But this time, the moment invites the audience in. It raises questions—what happened between them,? What is it that has been left unsaid? Wanting to know more, we draw closer. Instead of simply receiving the story, we’re actively piecing it together, keeping the story alive and moving forward even after the scene ends.

That’s the secret sauce: giving the audience space. When you don’t spell everything out, the audience steps in. Suddenly, we’re not just watching the story—we’re helping tell it. Our imagination fills in the blanks. And without that engagement, the story never quite lands.

Next time you're watching a story on the screen, pay attention to those gaps—the unspoken emotions, the unexplained details, the unanswered questions. If the story isn't grabbing you, consider how dialogue is used and what space is left for you to lean in.

And when you're writing your next scene, do this: first, dump everything you want the scene to communicate into the dialogue. Then, strip it away. Let the visuals speak for themselves, and see how much you can leave unsaid. I bet you'll find the scene gets deeper, more nuanced, more powerful—oh, how loud the silence can be!