THE MEET UP

DISTANCE

Three months in Kigali. Ninety-three days. Two thousand, two hundred and thirty-two hours.

I count them all.

My apartment here's sterile. Corporate furnished, faceless walls. Basic furniture. Everything is chosen for practicality, not personality.

I’ve tried to make it home. Amon’s paintings on the walls. Photos of us on my desk. A bright kitten gambled over the beige couch.

It still feels like a hostel room.

It’s 947 PM. Kigali time. 1047 PM in Kampala. We video call every night. Same time. Same ritual.

Except tonight, I’ve missed three calls from him. Too deep in work. Too exhausted. Too f*****g tired of being here.

My phone rings again. His face fills the screen.

I answer. Don't turn on my video.

“ Hey. ”

“ Why isn't your video on? ” Immediate concern in his voice.

“ Because I look terrible, and I’m working, and I don't have energy for a full call right now. ”

Silence. Heavy and disappointed.

“ Sarah, you’ve missed three calls. I was upset something happened. ”

“ I’m fine. I’m just busy. The phase three proposal is due tomorrow and — ”

“ It’s always something. ” His frustration cuts through. “ Always one further deadline, one further meeting, one further thing more important than us. ”

My wrathfulness flashes. Hot and protective. “ That’s not fair. This is my job, Amon. The job we agreed I’d do. The job you said you supported. ”

“ I do support it! But Sarah, you’re coming home in fifteen months. Fifteen months, and I feel like I’m losing you more every day. We talk slightly presently. And when we do, you’re distracted or exhausted or — ”

“ Or what? Or human? Or dealing with the stress of this design while everyone expects me to be agitated about eventually coming home when I'm actually alarmed? ”

The words escape before I can stop them.

Silence. That admission hanging between us.

“ Alarmed at what? ” His voice is quiet now. Careful.

“ Of everything is changing. Of not fitting back into my Kampala life. Of you and me being different people who don't work presently. Of realizing we only survived this year because we were piecemeal. ”

further silence. I can hear his breathing. Can picture his face indeed without video.

“ How can you say that? Sarah, we’re engaged. We’re supposed to get married. We’ve been counting down to — ”

“ I know what we’ve been counting down to! But Amon, what if we counted down to a fantasy? What if the US that exists on defense isn't the same as the US that exists in real life ”

“ So you’re saying this was all for nothing? ” His voice is cold now. Hurt. “ Three months of missing you, of painting you, of refusing every opportunity that would take me down from being available for your calls — that was all meaningless? ”

“ I’m not saying it was meaningless! I’m saying I’m spooked and exhausted, and I don't know how to be the person you need me to be right now! ”

The fight escalates. Voices rose. Years of patience fraying.

“ Perhaps you should figure out what you want, Sarah. Because I’ve been very clear about what I want. You. Us. Marriage. A life together. But if you’re having doubts.

“ Don’t. Don't make a claim. ”

“ I’m not forcing anything. I’m asking you to tell me the truth. Do you still want to marry me? ”

The question sits like a stone in my stomach. The answer should be simple. Should be immediate. Should be yesed without hesitation.

But I’m so tired. So overwhelmed. So spooked.

“ I do n’t know. ”

The words destroy something. I hear his sharp input of breath. I can picture his face — pain, shock, treason.

“ You don't know. ”

“ Amon, I’m sorry, I did n’t mean — ”

“ No, you did mean it. Thank you for being honest. I need to go. ”

“ Stay, don't hang up, we need to — ”

“ I cann't do this right now. I cann't — I need space, Sarah. I need to suppose. ”

“ Space? What does that mean? Amon, please.

“ It means I’ll call you tomorrow. Or the coming day. I do n’t know. I just — I cann't right now. ”

The call ends. The silence is blaring.

I gawk at my dark phone screen. My reflection gaping back — concave-eyed, devastated, alone.

I try calling back. Immediately. It rings once, and also goes to voicemail. He declined it.

I try again. Straight to voicemail. He turned his phone off.

Fear sets in. Full force.

“ No, no, no. What did I do? What did I just do? ”

I text frenetically.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn't mean it. I’m just spooked and I said the wrong thing. Please call me back. Please.

Communication delivered but not read.

I wait. Staring at my phone. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

Nothing.

I’ve never felt more alone in my life.

I call Miriam. It’s nearly midnight in Kampala, but I don't care.

She answers on the third ring. “ Sarah? What’s wrong? ”

“ I f****d up. Miriam, I f****d up so poorly. ”

“ What happened? ”

I tell her everything. The fight. The question. My answer. His silence.

“ Oh, Sarah. ”

“ I didn't mean it. I was just tired and spooked, and it came out wrong, and now he won't answer and — ”

“ Breathe. Just breathe. He’s hurt. He needs time to reuse. Give him tonight. ”

“ What if he doesn't call back? What if I just destroyed the best thing in my life? ”

“ Also, you’ll survive. But Sarah, he loves you. One bad fight doesn't erase three months of love. Call him tomorrow. Actually, talk rather than fight. Fix this. ”

“ What if I cann't? ”

“ You can. You’re Sarah Nakitende. You have insolvable effects. You can rebuild this. ”

We talk for another hour. She talks me down from my fear. Reminds me I’m human. Reminds me Amon is human too.

When we hang up, I sit in my sterile apartment. Alone, Gaping at my silent phone.

I pulled up our text thread. Scroll through months of messages. Good morning texts. I love yous. Photos of his paintings. My work spots. Substantiation of us trying. Fighting. Surviving.

I class another message.

I love you. I’m spooked of losing you. I’m spooked of failing at this. But I’m not uncertain about loving you. Please call me when you’re ready. I’ll be here. Always. - S

I hit shoot.

Message delivered.

Not read.

I wait.

That’s all I can do now.

Wait and hope I didn't just destroy us.