Love can make time feel elastic. Days stretch endlessly when you're apart, yet collapse into moments when you're together. The weeks I spent falling for Daniel blurred into a dreamlike haze, where reality felt softer, sweeter, almost too fragile to last.
And then, without warning, reality came crashing in.
The News
It was a Saturday morning. I had invited Daniel over for breakfast, and we were standing in my small kitchen, the smell of coffee mingling with warm toast. I was humming under my breath as I scrambled eggs, feeling unusually light.
"Emily," he said suddenly, his tone sharper than usual.
I turned, spatula in hand. "What is it?"
He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. "I need to tell you something. I didn't want to bring it up yet, but…" He trailed off.
The pit in my stomach formed before the words even landed. "But what?"
His eyes locked on mine, heavy with something I couldn't name. "Work is sending me abroad. For three months. Maybe longer."
The spatula slipped from my fingers, clattering against the counter. "Abroad? When?"
"Two weeks from now."
Two weeks. Fourteen days. That was all we had left before an ocean stretched between us.
I tried to mask the panic rising in me. "Where?"
"Singapore," he replied. "There's a project there. They need someone on the ground, someone they can trust. I couldn't say no."
I wanted to say: But you could have. You could have chosen me. Instead, I bit back tears and managed, "And you weren't going to tell me?"
"I wanted to," he said quickly. "But I didn't know how. Every time I looked at you, I just—" He stopped, frustration flashing in his eyes. "I didn't want to hurt you."
I laughed, though it came out bitter. "Well, you managed it anyway."
Two Weeks of Borrowed Time
After that morning, everything between us carried the heaviness of an ending.
We still met, still laughed, still kissed, but beneath every smile was the ache of a countdown. I tried to savor each moment, to memorize the way his hand felt in mine, the sound of his voice when he said my name. But the closer the day came, the harder it became to pretend.
One evening, as we walked along the Thames, the city lights reflected in the water, I blurted, "What if you don't come back?"
He stopped, turning to face me. "Emily—"
"I'm serious," I said, my voice trembling. "Three months. Six months. Things change. People change."
He cupped my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Listen to me. I will come back. And when I do, I'll still want you. Do you hear me?"
I wanted to believe him. I nodded, though the fear in my chest didn't ease.
Because love promises many things, but distance has a way of testing even the strongest bonds.
The Night Before
The night before his flight, Daniel came over with a bottle of wine. We sat on the floor of my living room, the bottle between us, neither of us drinking much.
"It feels unreal," I whispered.
"I know," he said softly. "I hate leaving like this."
Silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. Then, with a sudden urgency, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me like it was the last air he'd ever breathe.
We made love that night with a desperation that was almost painful, clinging to each other as though we could carve the memory so deeply into our skin that distance couldn't erase it.
Afterward, we lay tangled together, my head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
"Promise me," I whispered. "Promise me we'll survive this."
He pressed his lips to my hair. "I promise."
But even as he said it, I felt the uncertainty lurking between us. Promises, I knew, were easy to make when your arms were still around each other. The test was in the keeping.
The Airport
The next morning, we stood at Heathrow, surrounded by the bustle of departures. My chest felt hollow, as though part of me had already boarded the plane with him.
Daniel held my hand tightly, his thumb tracing circles on my skin. "I'll call as soon as I land," he said.
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
When the final boarding call came, he pulled me close, pressing his forehead against mine. "Emily, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Don't forget that."
Tears blurred my vision. "Then come back to me."
"I will," he whispered. And then, with one last kiss, he was gone.
I stood there long after his figure disappeared, the echo of his presence still clinging to me. But the silence that followed was deafening.
Alone
The days after Daniel left were the hardest I'd ever known. The apartment felt emptier, the city colder. I reached for my phone constantly, waiting for his messages, clinging to every word he sent.
At first, he called every day, his voice tired but warm. We laughed, we shared small details, we pretended the distance was just a temporary inconvenience.
But slowly, the calls became less frequent. The messages shorter. Sometimes he went a whole day without replying, and when he did, his words were rushed, distracted.
I told myself it was the time difference, the workload, the exhaustion. But the doubts whispered louder with each silence.
And every night, as I lay alone in the bed we had once shared, I replayed his promise: I'll come back. I'll still want you.
I wanted to believe. I had to believe.
But already, I could feel the cracks forming.
The first goodbye had been said.
What I didn't know then was that it wouldn't be the last.