Elior stared at his phone as if it might burn him.
The café around him had resumed its normal rhythm—cups clinking, voices rising and falling, a barista calling out names—but none of it reached him. The world had narrowed to the glowing screen in his hand and the single message waiting to be opened.
From: Mira
He didn't open it immediately.
Not because he didn't want to know—but because knowing would collapse the space of possibility into something real. Until he read it, the future still existed in multiple forms. Hope and loss coexisted, fragile but intact.
Once he opened it, one of them would disappear.
He had spent so much of his life fearing moments like this. Moments where one choice, one sentence, one decision shifted everything. Moments that couldn't be softened, postponed, or controlled.
Moments that asked you to be brave without knowing the reward.
Elior inhaled slowly.
And opened the message.
I'm not choosing yet. I just need you to know something before tonight ends.
His heart lurched.
Not choosing yet.
Relief flared—and was immediately followed by tension. This wasn't resolution. It was a pause before impact.
Another message followed.
What you said today changed something in me.
Elior's throat tightened.
He sank back into the chair, suddenly aware that his legs felt unsteady.
Changed something.
For better or worse, he didn't know.
He typed, erased, typed again.
I'm here. Take all the time you need.
He stared at the words before sending them, checking for hidden pressure, unintentional expectations. Old habits died slowly.
Finally, he hit send.
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Then stopped.
Then appeared again.
Elior's pulse hammered.
While he waited, memories surfaced uninvited.
Every time he had waited like this before—outside emotional doors he didn't know how to open. Every time silence had meant retreat. Every time he had interpreted uncertainty as rejection and withdrawn before anyone could confirm it.
But this time, he didn't leave.
He stayed.
The reply came.
I realized I've been afraid that choosing myself would mean losing you.
Elior closed his eyes.
And I've been afraid that choosing love would mean losing myself.
The symmetry of the fears struck him.
Two people standing on opposite sides of the same uncertainty, each afraid of becoming smaller for the sake of the other.
He typed slowly.
I don't want either of us to shrink.
Seconds passed.
Then minutes.
No response.
Elior left the café as evening deepened, walking without direction. The city lights blurred slightly as moisture gathered in his eyes—not tears exactly, but something close. A pressure behind the eyes that came from holding too much emotion without release.
He crossed the bridge over the river and stopped halfway, gripping the railing.
Below him, the water flowed relentlessly forward.
He thought of all the versions of himself that had never made it this far. The boy who believed he wasn't lovable unless he was perfect. The young man who kept emotional exits unlocked at all times. The lover who confused distance with dignity.
Those versions would have interpreted Mira's silence as a verdict.
This version chose patience.
His phone buzzed again.
This time, his hands shook as he lifted it.
I don't know what I'm going to choose, the message read.
But I do know that for the first time, I don't feel like I'm choosing alone.
Elior's breath hitched.
He leaned his forehead against the cool metal railing, letting the feeling wash through him.
Togetherness without possession.
Connection without control.
This was new.
This was terrifying.
This was love as an active practice—not a guarantee.
He replied:
Whatever you decide, I'm proud of you for listening to yourself.
The typing indicator appeared almost instantly.
Then paused.
Then resumed.
His heart thudded louder with each second.
I'm coming by later, Mira wrote.
Not to decide. Just to talk.
Relief and fear collided inside him.
Anytime, he replied. I'll be here.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and stayed on the bridge a little longer, watching the river reflect the fractured lights of the city. Nothing about his future felt solid—but something inside him did.
He was no longer running from uncertainty.
He was standing inside it.
When he returned to the apartment, the space felt charged with anticipation. Every object seemed sharper, more present. The couch where they had spent lazy afternoons. The kitchen table where difficult conversations had unfolded. The quiet corners where intimacy had grown slowly, carefully.
He didn't distract himself.
He didn't rehearse speeches.
He waited.
Mira arrived just after nine.
He heard her keys before the door opened, the familiar sound sending a jolt through him. When she stepped inside, she looked different—not dramatically, but subtly. Calmer. More resolved, somehow.
She set her bag down and looked at him.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," he replied.
They stood there for a moment, suspended.
Then she crossed the room and hugged him.
Not tightly.
Not hesitantly.
Just fully.
Elior closed his eyes and held her, breathing her in, grounding himself in the reality of her presence.
When they pulled apart, she didn't sit immediately.
"I need to say something," she said.
"Okay."
"I'm not ready to choose tonight," she continued. "But I need you to hear this clearly."
His chest tightened.
"I've spent my life believing that love should make decisions easier," she said. "That if something was right, it would feel obvious."
She shook her head slightly. "This doesn't feel obvious. It feels… honest."
Elior nodded slowly.
"And honesty," she continued, "is forcing me to see that whatever I choose will cost me something."
"Yes," he said softly. "I think that's true."
She looked at him intently. "What scares me is that part of me wants to choose the harder path—not because it's noble, but because it feels more alive."
Elior swallowed.
"And what scares me," she added, "is that the harder path might not include you."
The words landed like a quiet fracture.
Elior didn't rush to fill the space.
He had learned that some moments needed room to breathe.
"I don't want to hold you back," he said finally. "And I don't want to pretend I wouldn't miss you."
Mira's eyes glistened.
"Do you think we're strong enough to survive distance?" she asked.
Elior hesitated.
Then answered truthfully.
"I think we're strong enough to try," he said. "But strength doesn't mean certainty."
She nodded. "And if trying changes us?"
"Then we decide again," he replied.
Mira let out a shaky breath, as if something inside her loosened.
They sat together on the couch, close but not clinging.
Time passed.
Words came and went.
They talked about practical things—visas, timelines, possibilities—but beneath every sentence was the same unspoken question:
Are we choosing hope—or delaying goodbye?
Eventually, Mira stood.
"I should go," she said. "I need to sit with this alone."
Elior stood too.
"Okay."
She reached for his hands, holding them tightly.
"No matter what I decide," she said, "meeting you changed the way I think about love."
His throat burned.
"And you changed the way I think about choice," he replied.
She smiled sadly.
Then she did something unexpected.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the fellowship envelope.
Placed it on the table.
Elior's heart slammed.
"I haven't opened it again," she said. "But I need you to know… tomorrow, I will."
He nodded slowly.
"That's fair."
She stepped closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Then she left.
Elior stood alone in the apartment, staring at the envelope.
Tomorrow.
The word echoed in his mind.
He didn't know whether tomorrow would bring distance or commitment, loss or transformation. He only knew that whatever happened, he had chosen to stay present—to love without guarantees.
His phone buzzed again.
Another message from Mira.
Short.
Unfinished.
There's something I didn't tell you about the fellowship—
The message stopped there.
No follow-up.
No explanation.
Elior stared at the screen, heart racing, a cold realization settling in his chest.
Whatever that envelope contained…
It wasn't the whole truth.
🌑 End of Chapter Forty-Five