MILES APART

UNSPOKEN COUNTDOWN

Chapter Nine

The Unspoken Countdown

But the days were passing.

They both felt it, though neither mentioned it. The calendar on Elara's phone marked off the weeks remaining in her fellowship—four months, three months, two. The ticket on Leo's nightstand showed the date of his flight to Buenos Aires, the numbers printed in stark black ink. And between them, unspoken, hung the question neither was ready to ask: What happens after?

They filled the days with everything they could. Morning coffee at the café, where the silver-haired waitress had stopped asking for their order and simply brought their usual drinks with a knowing smile. Afternoon walks along the cliffs, the wind whipping her braids around her face, his camera forgotten for once. Evening swims in water that was finally warm enough to bear, the Atlantic yielding at last to summer.

Nights tangled together in his narrow bed or hers, learning each other's bodies with the desperate intensity of people running out of time. His hands on her skin, her mouth on his shoulder, the way they moved together like they were trying to memorize something they were about to lose.

They talked about everything except the future.

They talked about her research—the patterns she was beginning to see in the seagrass data, the paper she was drafting, the possibility of a postdoc in San Diego that would let her continue the work. "It's exactly what I've been working toward," she said one night, lying in his arms, staring at the ceiling. "The institute has the best marine restoration program in the country. If I get it—"

"You'll take it."

It wasn't a question. She turned to look at him. "You sound very sure."

"I am." He stroked her hair, his fingers gentle, automatic. "It's what you've been working for. What you came here to build. You can't give that up."

"Can't I?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Could you? Give it up? For what?"

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. They both knew what he wasn't saying. For me.

---

They talked about his project—the final interviews with João, the editing process, the hope that the photos might find a home in a magazine or gallery somewhere. "There's interest from a gallery in New York," he said one afternoon, his voice carefully neutral. "They want to see the full series when it's done."

"New York." She tested the word. "That's far."

"It's far. But it's a good opportunity. The kind I've been working toward."

She nodded. "You should go."

"Should I?"

She met his eyes. "Leo. You've been working toward this your whole life. You can't give it up."

"For what?"

They held each other's gaze for a long moment. Then she looked away.

"For nothing," she said. "For no one."

---

They didn't talk about the countdown, but it was there. In the way they held each other a little longer in the mornings. In the way they lingered over coffee, stretching out conversations that used to end naturally. In the way Leo's camera was always in his hand now, capturing everything—the light on her face, the way she moved through the water, the curve of her smile when she thought he wasn't watching.

"You're taking too many pictures," she said one evening, finding him on the dock, his lens pointed at the horizon.

"There's no such thing."

"There is when you're trying to capture something that can't be captured." She sat beside him, her shoulder against his. "You can't photograph time, Leo. You can't photograph the days we have left."

He lowered the camera. "I'm not trying to capture time. I'm trying to remember."

"You won't forget."

"I know. But I want to see it. When I'm—" He stopped.

"When you're where?"

"When I'm not here." The words came out rough, scraped. "When I'm in Buenos Aires, or New York, or wherever I end up. I want to look at these photographs and remember what it felt like. To be here. With you."

She took the camera from his hands, set it on the dock beside them. "What does it feel like?"

He looked at her for a long moment. The sun was setting behind her, painting her face in shades of gold and orange, and he thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, and never would again.

"Like coming home," he said. "Like finding something I didn't know I was looking for. Like—" He stopped, searching for words. "Like I finally understand why I've been running all these years."

"Why?"

"Because I was looking for this. For you. For a place where I didn't have to run anymore."

She reached for his hand. Their fingers intertwined, familiar now, the way they'd done a hundred times. "And now?"

"Now I'm here. And I don't want to leave."

She squeezed his hand. "Then don't."

"I have to."

She pulled her hand away, stood, walked to the edge of the dock. The Atlantic stretched before her, endless, indifferent, the same water that had been here for millennia and would be here long after they were gone.

"Why?" she asked. "Why do you have to leave?"

He stood, came up behind her. "Because I made a commitment. Because there's work I need to do. Because if I stay—" He stopped.

"If you stay what?"

"If I stay, I'll want to stay forever. And I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to be in one place. I don't know how to be—" He stopped again, and she heard the fear in his voice, the thing he'd been running from his whole life.

"You don't know how to be loved," she said. "Not really. Not without running."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

She turned to face him. "I don't know either. I don't know how to love someone without losing them. My father died. Marcus left. Everyone I've ever loved has either left or been taken. And I've spent years telling myself that it was better not to want anything. That wanting was weakness."

"Elara—"

"But I was wrong." She took his face in her hands. "Wanting isn't weakness. It's the whole point. My father knew that. João knows that. And I'm learning it. Here. With you."

He closed his eyes. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know. But I know that I'm not going to spend these last weeks pretending. I'm not going to hold back because I'm scared of what happens after. I'm going to want you. I'm going to love you. And when you leave, I'm going to let you go. Because that's what love is. Not holding on. Letting go when letting go is the kindest thing you can do."

He opened his eyes. They were bright, wet, and she saw something in them she'd never seen before—not the restlessness, not the fear, but something deeper. Something like surrender.

"I love you," he said. "I know it's too soon. I know we've only had weeks. I know it's impractical and impossible and probably the stupidest thing I've ever said. 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."

---

That night, they lay in his narrow bed, facing each other, their legs tangled in the sheets. The window was open, and she could hear the Atlantic breathing in the distance, patient and endless.

"Tell me something," she said. "Something I don't know."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "When I was seven, after my father left, I used to stand at the window every day after school. I'd watch for his truck. I did it for months. Maybe years."

"What did you think would happen? That he'd come back?"

"I don't know. I just—I couldn't believe he was gone. Couldn't believe he'd leave without saying goodbye. So I waited. And every day he didn't come, I told myself he would tomorrow. And then one day, I stopped waiting."

"What happened that day?"

He smiled, a sad smile she was beginning to recognize. "My abuela took me to the desert. She said, 'You can wait your whole life for someone who isn't coming, or you can see what's in front of you.' And she gave me her camera."

She traced the line of his jaw with her finger. "She taught you to see."

"She taught me to see what was there. Not what I wished was there."

"And now?"

He met her eyes. "Now I see you. And I don't want to look away."

---

They talked until dawn, the way they had in the beginning, before they knew what they were becoming. They talked about their fathers, their mothers, the choices that had shaped them. They talked about the seagrass and the photographs, the things they were trying to save and the things they were trying to witness. They talked about the future—not their future together, because that was something they couldn't name, but the futures they wanted for themselves, the people they were trying to become.

"I want to be someone who stays," Leo said, as the first light began to appear on the horizon. "I want to be someone who can be in one place and not feel like I'm suffocating. I want to be someone who can love without running."

She took his hand. "You are that person. You're becoming him. Here, with me."

"What if I can't? What if I leave and I go back to the way I was? The running, the restlessness, the—"

"Then you'll come back." She said it simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You'll come back here. Or you'll find me. Or you'll keep running until you find the next place that makes you want to stay. And that's okay. That's who you are."

"And you? Who are you becoming?"

She thought about it. About the woman in the photographs, the one who laughed freely and slept peacefully and existed without defending. About the scientist who talked to seagrass and hummed when she concentrated and saved the best bite for last. About the daughter who had finally learned to let her father go.

"Someone who can love without holding back," she said. "Someone who can want something without being afraid of losing it. Someone who can let go when letting go is the kindest thing to do."

"And is that who you are now?"

She looked at him. At the man who had seen her, really seen her, when she thought no one was looking. At the witness who had taught her that being seen wasn't weakness.

"I'm becoming her," she said. "Here. With you."

He kissed her once more, softly, and the sun rose over the Atlantic, painting the room in shades of gold.

---

When she left that morning, the village was waking up. The café was opening, the silver-haired waitress setting out chairs. The fishermen were heading to the harbor, their nets slung over their shoulders, their voices carrying in the morning air.

She walked up the hill toward her apartment, her steps heavy, her heart heavier. Three more days. He had three more days.

Her phone buzzed.

I don't want to go.

She stopped in the middle of the street. Stared at the message.

Then don't, she typed. But she didn't send it. Instead, she typed: I know.

She put her phone away, walked up the hill, unlocked her door. The apartment was quiet, the way she liked it. The way it had been before him.

She sat in her chair by the window, watched the sun climb over the village, the fog burning off, the day beginning. Three more days. Seventy-two hours. And then he would be gone.

She let herself feel it. The fear, the sadness, the hope. She let herself want him, even knowing she couldn't keep him. She let herself love him, even knowing it would hurt.

Her phone buzzed again.

I'm not going to waste a single minute.

She smiled, despite herself.

Then don't.

---

End of Chapter Nine