The envelope sat between them like a third presence.
Elior didn't touch it.
Not because he didn't want to—but because touching it felt like choosing a direction before he understood the cost. The paper looked ordinary, slightly creased from being folded and unfolded too many times, as if Mira herself hadn't known what to do with it.
The silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Weighted.
"You don't have to open it yet," Mira said quietly, misreading his stillness.
"I know," Elior replied. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. "I just… need a second."
She nodded, her fingers tightening together in her lap.
This was new territory for both of them. Not conflict rooted in misunderstanding, but tension born from possibility. The kind that didn't come from mistakes—but from growth.
Elior had always feared moments like this.
Not because of what they revealed—but because of what they demanded.
He picked up the envelope slowly, as if sudden movement might make it disappear.
"What kind of opportunity?" he asked.
Mira exhaled. "A fellowship. International. Two years."
The words landed heavily.
International.
Two years.
Elior felt something hollow open in his chest.
"Where?" he asked.
"Berlin," she said. "It's… big. Career-defining, actually."
Career-defining.
He nodded, absorbing the information piece by piece, like someone learning a new language under pressure.
"That's incredible," he said honestly. "You must be excited."
"I am," she replied. "And terrified. And guilty. All at once."
The guilt startled him.
"Why guilty?"
Mira looked at him, eyes shining but steady. "Because I didn't plan this around us. And part of me wonders if that means something."
Elior swallowed.
This was the moment he would have once responded with reassurance so quick it bordered on denial. Of course it doesn't mean anything. Of course you should go. Of course we'll be fine.
But he had learned that reflexive reassurance often came from fear—not clarity.
So instead, he told the truth.
"It means something," he said carefully. "But I don't know what yet."
Mira nodded slowly, relief flickering across her face—not because the answer was comforting, but because it was real.
"I didn't want to pretend it didn't matter," she said.
"Thank you for not doing that," Elior replied.
They sat quietly for a while, the hum of the city seeping in through the windows.
Elior's thoughts spiraled—not chaotically, but insistently.
Two years apart.
Different countries.
Different rhythms.
He had just begun learning how to stay present in love—and now love was asking him to tolerate distance.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
"What are you thinking?" Mira asked.
"That I've spent my life afraid of choosing something I couldn't control," Elior said. "And now I'm being asked to choose something I can't even fully see."
Mira's voice softened. "I'm not asking you to decide tonight."
"I know," he said. "But not deciding is still a decision."
She didn't argue.
Later that night, Elior lay awake beside her, staring into the dark.
His mind replayed moments from the past year—the slow building of trust, the quiet intimacy, the way Mira had made space for him without demanding he fill it immediately.
He thought about who he had been before her.
And who he was becoming now.
Was love meant to stretch like this?
Or was this the moment where honesty required letting go?
The next few days passed in a strange in-between state.
Nothing was wrong.
But nothing was settled.
They moved through routines with care, as if sudden motion might shatter something fragile. Conversations hovered just beneath the surface, waiting for courage.
Elior noticed how often he almost said I'll go with you—before realizing how much weight that sentence carried.
He also noticed how often he almost said I can't do this—before recognizing that fear was doing the talking.
Neither felt fully true.
On the fourth day, Elior went for a long walk alone.
He needed space—not to escape, but to think clearly.
The city felt different when he wasn't moving through it in response to someone else's presence. Quieter. More reflective.
He stopped by the river, watching the water flow steadily forward.
It reminded him of the dream.
The current.
The letting go.
But this time, the river wasn't just his.
It was hers too.
And their currents weren't perfectly aligned.
That evening, he asked Mira to sit with him.
Not across the table.
Beside him.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"So have I," she replied.
He took a breath. "I don't want you to give this up for me."
Mira's shoulders relaxed slightly.
"But," he continued, "I also don't want to pretend this won't change us."
She nodded. "It will."
"And I don't know yet if change means distance—or transformation."
Mira studied him. "What scares you more?"
Elior answered without hesitation.
"Loving you and failing," he said. "Or protecting myself and wondering what might have been."
The words surprised him with their clarity.
Mira reached for his hand.
"I don't want to lose you," she said softly. "But I also don't want to lose myself."
He squeezed her fingers gently. "I would never ask you to."
She hesitated. "Then what are we doing?"
The question hung between them.
This wasn't about logistics anymore.
It was about philosophy.
About whether love was meant to anchor—or accompany.
"I think," Elior said slowly, "we need to decide whether we're walking parallel paths… or trying to merge them."
"And if they don't merge?" Mira asked.
"Then we decide whether parallel is enough."
Her eyes searched his face. "And is it?"
Elior opened his mouth—
And stopped.
Because for the first time, he didn't know.
The following morning, Mira left early.
Not abruptly.
But deliberately.
"I need some space today," she said. "To think."
Elior nodded, even though the words tightened something in his chest.
"I understand."
She paused at the door. "Please don't disappear."
The request was gentle.
But it cut deep.
"I won't," he promised.
And meant it.
The hours that followed felt suspended.
Elior tried to work, but his thoughts kept drifting.
He replayed Mira's words.
I don't know if the version of you that's emerging has room for the version of me that's already here.
Did it?
Or had his growth begun to outpace their shared ground?
That evening, his phone buzzed.
A message from Mira.
Can we meet somewhere neutral?
His pulse quickened.
Of course, he replied.
She sent an address.
A café near the river.
When he arrived, she was already there, seated by the window.
She looked calm.
Too calm.
Elior sat down across from her, heart pounding.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," she replied.
They exchanged small talk, ordered drinks.
Delayed the inevitable.
Finally, Mira reached into her bag again.
This time, she pulled out not one envelope—but two.
Elior's breath caught.
"What are those?" he asked.
Mira looked at him, eyes steady but shining.
"One is the fellowship acceptance," she said.
"And the other?"
She slid the second envelope toward him.
"A decision I haven't opened yet."
Elior frowned. "What do you mean?"
Mira swallowed. "I was offered something else. Here. A different path."
His heart raced.
"Which one are you choosing?" he asked quietly.
Mira didn't answer.
Instead, she asked, "Which one do you think I should?"
The question landed like a fault line.
Elior stared at the envelopes.
Two futures.
Two directions.
And the realization that whatever he said next might change everything.
He opened his mouth—
Just as Mira's phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen.
Her expression shifted.
And Elior knew—before she said a word—that time had run out.
🌘 End of Chapter Forty-Three