THE MEET UP

REPAIR

He doesn't call for three days.

Seventy-two hours of silence. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes of wondering if I destroyed us.

I sleep slightly. eat slightly. Just work and stay and replay that conversation in an endless circle.

I do n’t know.

Two words that might have ended everything.

My coworker David — different David, Rwandan David, my site coordinator — notices. Brings me coffee on day three. Sits beside me at the construction site.

“ You look terrible, Sarah. ”

“ Thanks. That’s exactly what I demanded to hear. ”

“ What’s wrong? Project stress? ”

I want to lie. I should lie. Rather, I tell the truth because I’m too exhausted to pretend.

“ Boyfriend stress. Long distance. I f****d up. ”

He’s quiet for a moment. Also,“ The artist? From Kampala? ”

“ Yeah. How did you — ”

“ You talk about him constantly. ” He smiles. Not unkindly. “ He’s lucky. To have someone who loves him that important. ”

“ I told him I did n’t know if I want to marry him. While we’re thousands of kilometers apart. I’m an i***t. ”

“ You’re human. Did you mean it? ”

“ No. Yes. I don't know. ” I laugh bitterly. “ I’m so spooked of failing again. Of not being enough. Of — ”

My phone rings.

Amon’s name.

My heart stops. Starts. Stops again.

“ Answer it,” David says. Stands. Gives me privacy.

I answer. Voice shaking. “ Amon? ”

“ Hey. ” His voice is rough. Tired. Like he hasn't slept moreover.

“ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I did n’t mean — ”

“ Can we video call? I need to see your face. ”

I switched to video. We both look wrecked. Red eyes. Exhausted. Heartbroken.

“ I love you,” I blurt incontinently. “ I’m not uncertain about that. I was just overwhelmed and spooked, and it came out wrong and — ”

“ Sarah. Stop. Breathe. ”

I stop. Breathe. Stay.

“ I demanded three days to suppose. To figure out if I can be with someone who doesn't know if they want. ”

My heart cracks. “ Amon — ”

“ Let me finish. I realized something. You weren't saying you don't want me. You were saying your spooked. And I get that. I’m spooked too. This distance is killing me. Slowly. Every day. ”

Tears stream down my face. “ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making it harder. ”

“ We both made it harder. I pushed rather than harkening. You are shocked rather than communicating. We’re both f*****g over. ” He runs his hand through his hair. “ But Sarah, I don't want to give up. Do you? ”

“ No. God, no. I want us. I want you. I’m just scared of failing. ”

“ Also, let’s fail together. Or succeed together. But let’s stop doing this alone. ”

Relief floods through me. “ What do we do? How do we fix this? ”

“ We talk. Actually talk. Not just surface check-sways. Real conversations about what we’re feeling. The scary stuff. The dubieties. All of it. ”

“ I can do that. I want to do that. ”

“ And Sarah? I’m coming to Kigali. For Christmas. I sold a painting. Have enough for a ticket. Two weeks with you. If you want. ”

My breath catches. “ You’d fly then? ”

“ I’d fly to the moon for you. So yes. Kigali is easy. ”

I’m crying and laughing simultaneously. “ Yes. Come. Please come. ”

“ Three months. I'm also I’m there. Also, we figure this out in person. ”

We talked for two hours. Really talk. About loneliness. The fear. The pressure. The love in all the struggle.

It’s not fixed. Not fully. But it’s better. Honest. Real.

When we eventually hang up, I feel lighter. Hopeful.

David reappears. “ More? ”

“ More. He’s coming for Christmas. ”

“ Good. You’ve been miserable without him. ” He pauses. “ Sarah, can I say something? As a friend? ”

“ Sure. ”

“ I’ve been watching you for three months. You’re brilliant at this work. But you’re running on empty. You need to take care of yourself. Eat. Sleep. Live. Not just exist until you can get back to him. ”

His words hit hard. Because he’s right.

I’ve been holding my breath for three months. staying for real life to renew when I get home.

But this is real life too.

“ You’re right. I need to — I need to actually be then. Not just physically. ”

“ Exactly. Build your project. Make friends. Live in Kigali. It does n’t mean you love him less. It means you love yourself enough to be present. ”

I hug him impulsively. “ Thank you. For the coffee and the wisdom. ”

He laughs. “ Anytime. Now go home. Sleep. Eat something that is n’t coffee. ”

That night, I video call Amon again. slated. purposeful.

“ I’m sorry for earlier,” I say. “ Not the fight. The months ahead. I’ve been slightly being then. Staying to go home. That’s not fair to either of us. ”

“ What are you saying? ”

“ I’m saying I need to actually live in Kigali. Make this time matter. Not just survive it. Can you — can you support that? ”

He’s quiet for a moment. Also,“ Yes. I want you to be happy there. Not just counting days. Make your life. Make friends. Be present. It does n’t scare me. You being miserable scares me. ”

“ I love you. ”

“ I love you more. Now tell me about your project. Actually tell me. I want details. ”

So I do. I told him about the drainage systems. The original contractors. The challenges. The victories.

He listens. Really listens. Asks questions. Gets agitated about my work.

It feels like being seen again.

We talk about his paintings. His gallery show is coming up. His family. Normal couple of things.

This is what we demanded. Connection beyond“ I miss you. ”

When we hang up, I feel different. Still missing him. But not drowning in it.

I make dinner. Actually cook. Eat at my table rather than in front of my laptop.

I text Diane, my coworker. Want to snare drinks Friday? Team cling?

She responds incontinently. Eventually! Yes! I’ve been waiting for you to surface.

I smile. Put on music. Unpack the box of things I’ve been avoiding.

Amon’s paintings go on the walls. Properly hung. Making this place mine.

Photos of us. Of home. Of my Kampala life.

But also space for Kigali. For this chapter. For now.

I’m still leaving in fifteen months. Still going home. Still marrying him.

But I’m going to actually live while I’m here.

Not just survive.

Live.