MILES APART

THE LAST DAY

Chapter Ten

The Last Day

Leo's last full day in Vila do Mar was a Sunday.

The morning came golden and soft, the fog thinner than usual, the light already warm when Elara opened her eyes. For a moment, she forgot. She reached for him instinctively, the way she had every morning for the past weeks, her hand finding his chest, his arm, the warmth of his body beside hers.

Then she remembered.

She lay still, her hand on his skin, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way it never was during the day, the lines of worry and restlessness smoothed away. She traced the curve of his jaw, the hollow of his cheek, the place where his hair curled at his temple.

She wanted to memorize him. Every inch, every detail, every small thing she would carry with her when he was gone.

His eyes opened. He looked at her for a long moment, something shifting in his expression as he remembered too.

"Today," he said.

"Today."

He pulled her closer, his arms around her, his face against her hair. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, and she closed her eyes and let herself be held.

They stayed that way for a long time. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say that they hadn't already said, in words and in silences, in the way they held each other and the way they let go.

When they finally got up, the sun was high, the morning already half gone.

---

They spent the day doing all the things they'd done a hundred times before.

Coffee at the café. The silver-haired waitress brought their usual order without asking, and this time, she lingered for a moment, her hand on Elara's shoulder, her eyes soft.

"Men come and go," she said, in her accented English. "But the sea stays. The village stays. You come back. One day."

Elara nodded, not trusting her voice.

The waitress looked at Leo, then back at Elara. "He is good man. Not like some." She patted Elara's shoulder once more, then disappeared into the kitchen.

Leo watched her go. "What did she say?"

"That you're a good man. Not like some."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "She doesn't know me."

"She knows enough."

---

They walked along the cliffs, the path they'd walked a dozen times before. The wind was gentle today, the sea calm, the sky a pale, endless blue. Seagulls circled overhead, calling to each other in their harsh, beautiful language.

"This is where you told me about your father," Leo said, stopping at the place where the cliffs jutted out over the ocean. "The first time. About the poems he wrote, the myths he read to you."

She stood beside him, looking out at the water. "This is where you told me you'd never wanted to stay anywhere."

"And now?"

She turned to look at him. The sun was behind him, haloing his dark hair, casting his face in shadow.

"Now I don't want you to leave."

The words came out before she could stop them. She hadn't meant to say them, hadn't meant to let him know how much this was costing her. But it was the last day, and she was tired of pretending, tired of being practical, tired of being the one who let go without showing how much it hurt.

He stepped toward her, took her face in his hands. "I don't want to leave."

"Then don't."

He closed his eyes. "I have to."

"I know." She pulled away, turned back to the ocean. "I know you have to. I know there's work you need to do, a life you need to live. I know I can't ask you to stay, and you can't ask me to go with you. I know all of that. But I don't have to want it. I don't have to pretend that watching you leave is easy."

He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. She could feel his breath on her neck, his heartbeat against her back.

"It's not easy," he said. "It's the hardest thing I've ever done. Leaving you."

"Then stay."

"Elara—"

"I know." She turned in his arms, faced him. "I know you can't. I know I can't ask. I'm not asking. I'm just—" She stopped, swallowed. "I'm just saying what I feel. For once. Without being practical. Without being the one who lets go without showing how much it hurts."

He kissed her then, there on the cliffs, with the ocean below and the sky above and the seagulls crying overhead. It was not a gentle kiss. It was desperate and hungry and full of all the things they hadn't said, all the fears they hadn't voiced, all the future they were both pretending didn't exist.

When they finally broke apart, she was crying. She hadn't realized it until she felt his thumbs on her cheeks, wiping away tears.

"I love you," he said. "I love you, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I have to leave. I'm sorry we don't have more time. I'm sorry I can't be the person who stays."

"You are that person." She took his hands, held them against her chest. "You're becoming that person. Here, with me. And when you leave, you'll keep becoming. And one day, you'll find a place where you can stay. Or you'll come back. And I'll be here. Or I won't. But you'll have this. You'll have us. And that will be enough."

He pulled her close, held her against his chest. She could feel his heart, his breath, the trembling in his hands.

"I'll find you," he said. "Someday. Somehow. I'll find you."

She closed her eyes and let herself believe him.

---

They swam that afternoon, the water warm for once, the sun high overhead. She floated on her back, staring up at the sky, and he swam beside her, his hand on her stomach, anchoring her to the world.

"I used to do this with my father," she said. "When I was little. We'd go to Cornwall, and he'd hold me like this, and I'd float, and he'd tell me stories. About the sea, about the creatures that lived in it, about the sailors who'd crossed it."

"What stories did he tell you?"

"All of them. The Odyssey, the Argonauts, the voyages of Sinbad. He said the sea was the last wild place. That it didn't care about our borders or our wars or our petty human concerns. It just was."

"And that's what you're trying to save? The wildness?"

She was quiet for a moment. "I'm trying to save what he loved. What he taught me to love. When he died, I thought—if I could save this, if I could keep it from disappearing, then maybe a part of him wouldn't disappear either."

"Has it worked?"

She turned her head to look at him. His face was wet, his hair slicked back, his eyes dark and steady.

"Not really. He's gone. The seagrass is dying. Everything ends. But I think—" She stopped, searching for words. "I think maybe that's not the point. Maybe the point is that it existed at all. That he existed. That we're here, right now, in this water, together. That's something. That's enough."

He leaned over, kissed her forehead. "That's everything."

---

They had lunch at the café, the last lunch, the last galão, the last pastel de nata. The silver-haired waitress brought them extra pastries, refused to let them pay, kissed them both on the cheek.

"Come back," she said to Elara. "The seagrass needs you. And maybe—" She looked at Leo. "Maybe he comes back too."

They walked through the village one last time. The church square, the narrow streets, the alley that smelled of laundry soap and frying fish. Everything familiar, everything ending.

In the afternoon, João found them on the beach.

He stood at the edge of the dunes, his weathered face unreadable, his missing hand tucked into his pocket. For a long moment, he just looked at them—at Leo, at Elara, back at Leo.

"You are fool," he said. "Both of you."

Leo opened his mouth to respond, but João held up his hand.

"I am old. I have seen many things. I have loved and lost and loved again. And I tell you—love is not something you find and keep. Love is something you build, every day, with choices. You are choosing to leave. She is choosing to let you. These are choices. Own them."

He turned and walked away before either could respond.

Elara stared after him. "That was—"

"João being João."

"Should we feel worse or better?"

Leo laughed, but it came out rough. "I don't know. I don't know anything right now."

---

They spent the evening on the dock where they'd first kissed.

The stars came out, one by one, scattered across the darkening sky like seeds thrown by an unsparing hand. The Atlantic breathed beside them, patient and endless, the same water that had been here for millennia, that would be here long after they were gone.

They sat in silence, hands intertwined, hearts heavy with everything unsaid.

"I have to ask you something," Leo said finally.

"Anything."

"When I'm gone—when we're both gone from here, living our separate lives—will you regret this? Will you look back and wish we'd never started?"

Elara was quiet for a long moment. She thought about the weeks they'd had. The mornings on the beach, the afternoons at the café, the nights tangled together in his narrow bed. She thought about the photographs he'd taken, the woman she'd seen in them, the woman she was becoming.

"No," she said finally. "I won't. Because I've spent two years not feeling anything, not letting anyone in, not allowing myself to want. And you—" She squeezed his hand. "You reminded me that I'm capable of more than work and solitude. You reminded me that being seen isn't the same as being weak. Even if this ends tomorrow, even if I never see you again, I'll carry that with me. I'll be grateful for it."

He turned to look at her, and in the starlight, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"I love you," he said. "I know it's too soon, I know it's impractical, I know we've only had weeks and not years. But I love you, Elara Mbeki. And I needed you to know that before I go."

She kissed him then, softly, gently, pouring everything she couldn't say into the press of her lips against his.

"I love you too," she whispered when they broke apart. "And that's why I'm not going to ask you to stay."

---

They stayed on the dock until the stars were fully out, until the moon rose over the Atlantic, until the village was dark and quiet and the only sound was the breathing of the sea.

"I should go," Leo said finally. "I have to pack. The bus leaves at six."

"I know."

He stood, pulled her up. They faced each other on the dock, the same dock where they'd first kissed, where they'd spent so many nights, where they'd said the words that would carry them through the years ahead.

"Walk me home?" he asked.

She smiled, a little wobbly. "Walk me home."

They walked through the village together, their steps slow, reluctant. The streets were empty, the windows dark, the cats watching from doorways. At the corner where their paths diverged—his street leading down to the harbor, hers leading up the hill—they stopped.

"I don't want to say goodbye," she said.

"Then don't." He took her face in his hands. "Say 'see you later.' Say 'I'll find you.' Say anything but goodbye."

She kissed him once more, quickly, on the corner of his mouth.

"See you later," she said.

"I'll find you."

She pulled away, walked up the hill toward her apartment. At her door, she turned. He was still standing at the corner, watching her, the way he'd watched her that first day on the beach, the way he'd watched her every day since.

She raised her hand in a wave. He raised his in return.

Then she went inside, closed the door, and let herself cry.

---

She didn't sleep that night. She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the hours until the bus came, until he left, until she was alone again.

At five in the morning, her phone buzzed.

I'm at the bus stop. The fog is thick. I can't see the ocean.

She typed back: It's still there.

I know. But I can't see it. I can't see anything but you.

She closed her eyes. She could picture him there, standing in the fog, his camera slung over his shoulder, his ticket in his pocket. She could picture the bus coming, the doors opening, him getting on. She could picture him turning, looking back, seeing nothing but fog.

I'll find you, he'd said. Someday. Somehow. I'll find you.

She typed one last message: I'll be here.

She put her phone on the pillow beside her, closed her eyes, and waited for the sun to rise.

---

End of Chapter Ten