What We Hold From Afar
1580 Words
Evelyn felt it before she admitted it.
The fear was changing.
It was no longer the sharp panic of being abandoned—it was the heavier fear of being seen fully and still choosing to stay. Love was no longer a memory. It was becoming a possibility again, and that terrified her more than loneliness ever had.
She was at work when the email arrived.
A publishing conference. International. Short notice.
London.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. The city name pressed against her chest like fate with poor timing.
Across the city, Samuel received a call he had been expecting and dreading.
His family wanted him back—temporarily, they said. A meeting. Just a conversation. Nothing permanent.
He knew better.
That evening, they met without planning to.
The same park. The same bench. The sky restless above them.
“I might be leaving for a bit,” Evelyn said first.
Samuel’s jaw tightened. “Where?”
“London. Work.”
He nodded slowly. “I might be leaving too.”
Her heart sank despite herself. “Where?”
He exhaled. “Home.”
Silence fell—not angry, just heavy with history.
“So this is how it happens,” Evelyn said quietly. “Again.”
“No,” Samuel replied firmly. “This time, it’s how we decide.”
She turned to face him. “I won’t do long distance again, Samuel. Not with unanswered questions. Not with half-commitments.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he said. “I just need you to know—I’m not running. I’m going to face the things I used to hide behind.”
“And if they ask you to stay?” she asked.
“I’ll leave,” he said without hesitation. “If staying means losing you.”
Her breath hitched. “You can’t keep proving love by giving things up.”
“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I’m choosing what to keep.”
They sat there until the evening cooled.
When it was time to part, Samuel stopped her.
“Evelyn,” he said carefully, “when you come back… if you come back… can we try? Not as almosts. As something real.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“I don’t know who I’ll be when I return,” she said.
“I want to meet her,” he replied. “Whoever she becomes.”
She nodded, eyes shining. “Then don’t disappear.”
“I won’t,” he promised. “Even if you need space. Even if it’s hard.”
She left that night with a suitcase half-packed in her mind and a heart doing something dangerous again—hoping.
Love was no longer quiet.
It was asking to be lived.
Evelyn packed slowly.
Not because she had much to carry, but because every folded dress felt like a decision she wasn’t ready to make. London was only temporary, she reminded herself. Just work. Just weeks. Still, her chest tightened every time she imagined boarding the plane.
Samuel watched her from the doorway.
He had offered to help pack. She had said no.
This was something she needed to do on her own.
“You don’t have to come with me to the airport,” she said quietly, not looking at him.
“I know,” he replied. “I want to.”
She paused, fingers stilling on the fabric in her hands. “I’m not asking you to prove anything anymore.”
“I’m not proving,” he said softly. “I’m showing up.”
That word again.
Showing up.
They drove in silence, the city blurring past the windows. It wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, full of everything they were choosing not to say yet.
At the airport, time moved cruelly fast.
Evelyn stood with her suitcase beside her, suddenly unsure of where to put her hands, her eyes, her heart.
“This doesn’t feel like goodbye,” she said.
Samuel nodded. “It feels like standing on the edge of something.”
She looked up at him then. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t turn this into a sacrifice story,” she said. “Don’t tell yourself you’re losing pieces of your life for me. I don’t want to be carried like guilt.”
His throat tightened. “You’re not my guilt,” he said. “You’re my clarity.”
That almost broke her.
They stood there, close but not touching, surrounded by people rushing toward reunions and departures that felt simpler than theirs.
“I’m scared I’ll come back different,” Evelyn admitted. “That you’ll look at me and realize you loved who I was… not who I became.”
Samuel took a slow breath. “I’m scared you’ll come back and realize you don’t need me at all.”
She smiled sadly. “Those aren’t the same fears.”
“No,” he agreed. “But they both mean we care.”
The announcement echoed through the terminal. Final boarding.
Evelyn reached for her suitcase handle, hesitated—then did something she hadn’t done in years.
She stepped forward and hugged him.
Not tightly.
Not desperately.
Just enough to say I’m here.
Samuel closed his eyes.
For a moment, the past loosened its grip.
“Don’t disappear,” she whispered into his shoulder.
“I won’t,” he promised. “Even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if I don’t know what comes next.”
She pulled back, meeting his eyes. “When I come back… don’t ask me for who I used to be.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll ask who you are.”
She nodded, tears finally spilling free.
And then she turned away.
Samuel watched her walk toward security, every step feeling like trust being placed in his hands.
He didn’t follow.
Didn’t call out.
Didn’t chase.
Because love, he was learning, wasn’t about holding on—
It was about letting someone leave
and becoming someone worth returning to.
As Evelyn disappeared from view, Samuel stood still, heart aching but steady.
Episode Four didn’t end with certainty.
It ended with choice.
And choice, unlike fate, could be honored.
Evelyn’s first night in London was sleepless.
Not because of the time difference, but because the silence felt unfamiliar. It wasn’t the hollow quiet she had known years ago when Samuel disappeared from her life. This silence was full—heavy with awareness, with the knowledge that someone else was awake somewhere, choosing not to disappear.
She sat by the window, wrapped in a thin blanket, watching rain trace the glass like unanswered questions.
Her phone buzzed.
Samuel:
You landed. I know because I couldn’t breathe until you did.
She smiled, then frowned at the ache behind it.
Evelyn:
I’m here. Tired. A little scared.
Three dots appeared. Paused. Appeared again.
Samuel:
You don’t have to be strong with me. Just be.
That did it.
Tears came quietly, the kind that don’t ask permission. She didn’t reply right away. She just held the phone like it was a bridge.
Back home, Samuel sat on the edge of his bed, the room still smelling faintly like Evelyn’s shampoo from the night she packed. He had not cleaned yet. He wasn’t ready to erase her presence.
Distance, this time, felt like responsibility.
Days unfolded with cautious rhythm.
Evelyn buried herself in work. Panels. Deadlines. Long conversations that left her mentally full but emotionally exposed. At night, she sent Samuel voice notes instead of texts—soft, unguarded updates she didn’t have the energy to type.
Samuel listened to them twice. Sometimes three times.
He never rushed her replies. Never asked why she hadn’t called. He learned the art of waiting without resentment.
One evening, exhaustion caught up with her.
Evelyn (voice note):
I hate that loving you still feels like something I could lose.
Samuel closed his eyes.
Samuel:
Then let’s love each other like something fragile—not something guaranteed.
She breathed out shakily. “Okay.”
That word became their anchor.
Okay meant I’m still here.
Okay meant I’m scared but staying.
Okay meant don’t let go yet.
But distance is never neutral.
One night, Evelyn attended a dinner with colleagues. Laughter. Wine. Ease. A man across the table looked at her with interest uncomplicated by history.
Samuel’s name came up in her thoughts uninvited, heavy and demanding.
She excused herself early.
Back in her room, she stared at her reflection, asking herself the question she’d avoided:
Am I choosing Samuel… or choosing pain I already understand?
She typed, erased, typed again.
Evelyn:
If this stops being healthy, I need to be able to say so.
Samuel replied immediately.
Samuel:
Then we stop. Or we slow down. Or we change the shape of it. I don’t want love that traps you.
Her shoulders sagged with relief.
That was the difference.
Old Samuel would have begged.
This Samuel made room.
Weeks passed.
They didn’t talk every day. They didn’t pretend distance was easy. But they told the truth when it hurt and rested when it didn’t.
Love was no longer dramatic.
It was deliberate.
And as Evelyn circled her return date on the calendar, a quiet truth settled in her chest:
Whatever waited for them at the end of this distance—
it would not be built on hope alone.
It would be built on choice,
made daily,
even when no one was watching.
- Writer
