Morning separated them again.
Not abruptly. Just inevitably.
They moved through the apartment with quiet efficiency—brushing teeth side by side, exchanging small comments about the weather, the day ahead. Juni slung his bag over his shoulder while Elian scanned his calendar, brow furrowing briefly.
"Tonight might be late," Elian said.
Juni nodded. "I've got studio until seven anyway."
They stood at the door for a moment longer than necessary. Elian reached out, brushing his thumb along Juni's wrist—a brief, grounding touch.
"Text me," he said.
"Always," Juni replied.
Their paths diverged outside, each turning toward a different transit line, a different set of expectations.
The days unfolded separately.
Juni spent hours in the studio, working through feedback that contradicted itself, navigating conversations that required confidence he was still assembling. He felt capable, but stretched—like someone learning how far they could lean without falling.
Elian moved through meetings and lectures that assumed his presence as given. People listened when he spoke. Deferred when he paused. The weight of it followed him, subtle but constant.
By afternoon, both felt the pull.
Not panic. Not need. Just gravity.
A message arrived mid-lecture.
Juni: Still breathing.
Elian smiled and typed back under the desk.
Elian: Same. Thinking of you.
The words weren't reassurance. They were acknowledgment.
That evening, they didn't meet right away. Juni stayed late, refining a piece that refused to resolve. Elian finished a meeting that ran over, resisting the urge to rush its conclusion.
When they finally came together hours later, there was relief—but also awareness. The distance between their days was growing, even as the bond between them held.
They sat on the couch, shoulders touching, exhaustion settling in.
"It's strange," Juni said quietly. "How much space there is now."
Elian nodded. "And how little of it actually feels empty."
Juni leaned his head against Elian's shoulder. "Do you think it'll get harder?"
Elian considered the question carefully. "I think it'll get heavier," he said. "But not weaker."
Juni closed his eyes, letting that land.
They didn't need to promise anything.
They could feel the strain. They could feel the pull.
For now, shared gravity was enough to keep them moving toward each other—even when their days pulled them apart.