CHAPTER 2
1517 Words
Chapter 2: The Distance Between Here and There
The morning sun slithered through the slats in Lena Carter’s blinds, casting pale golden bars across the wooden floor of her bedroom. Her head throbbed—a slow, deep ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. She blinked against the light and groaned softly, burying her face into the pillow.
Regret tasted bitter on her tongue, right alongside the flat remnants of the cheap beer from last night.
Her limbs felt heavy, anchored by exhaustion and the emotional wreckage of the night before. It took every ounce of will to sit up in bed. Her mouth was dry, her hair a tousled mess knotted at the back of her neck, and the black smudge on her pillow told her she hadn’t managed to wash her face before collapsing into sleep. That figured.
She rubbed her temples and exhaled slowly, trying to gather herself, to exist in this moment without drowning in the one she had just survived.
Damian.
The breakup.
His voice had chased her into her dreams, clipped with pain and disbelief.
"You’re choosing Paris over us?”
"Don’t do this, Lena. Not like this."
"You’re walking away from everything we built."
Her fingers curled into the bedsheet. She told herself again, for the hundredth time, that she’d had to do it. She had to. Her dreams had been calling her for years, pulling her toward the unknown, and this was her chance. If she waited for life to give her permission, she’d die right where she started—talented but invisible, dreaming but never daring.
Lena swung her legs over the edge of the bed and padded toward the bathroom. She avoided her reflection at first, not ready to face herself. But as the water ran cold over her toothbrush and then warmer in the shower, she let the stream wash over her, tried to scrub off more than just sweat and sleep—she tried to scrub off the guilt.
Wrapped in a towel, she walked barefoot back into her room and took a long look around. The walls were lined with memories—photos, postcards, clippings from magazines, a Polaroid or two tacked above her desk. Everything was still. Too still. The kind of quiet that made space for second thoughts.
But she didn’t have time for second thoughts. Her flight to Paris left tonight.
She dressed in soft cotton shorts and a loose T-shirt, hair still damp. As she walked to the kitchen, the apartment felt too big, too quiet. She poured herself a glass of orange juice, the only thing in the fridge besides an old carton of almond milk and a few stray bottles of kombucha.
She sipped slowly, the juice cutting through her hangover. Then she returned to her room and opened the closet. Her suitcase lay at the foot of her bed, half-packed from the day before. Now, it waited.
Lena pulled down the rest of her sweaters and coats. She moved slowly, folding with care, placing each item inside as though preparing them for a life she hadn’t yet lived.
But when she reached for the bottom drawer of her dresser, her hand brushed against something wooden.
Her heart stuttered.
She hesitated, fingers wrapping around the edge of a frame. She pulled it out.
The photo.
It was one she hadn’t meant to keep but couldn’t bring herself to throw away. She and Damian stood beneath the trees at his family’s lake house, arms wrapped around each other, laughter frozen in time. Her hair was a mess from the wind; his shirt was soaked from the water balloon fight they’d had minutes before. Their faces were sunlit and completely, blissfully unburdened.
Her knees gave way slightly, and she sank onto the bed, the frame trembling in her hands.
And then it all came rushing back.
Damian teaching her how to drive stick-shift in the empty college parking lot. Damian making coffee with too much sugar because he knew she had a sweet tooth. Damian carrying her upstairs when she twisted her ankle. Damian kissing her neck when she was trying to write, whispering “you’re beautiful when you concentrate.”
Their Sunday morning rituals. The Netflix marathons. The way his voice softened when he said her name.
A single tear welled up and slid down her cheek. Then another.
She hated crying.
But she didn’t wipe it away this time. She let the grief sit for a minute. The ache of loss. The fear of stepping into a future where he didn’t exist.
And then she inhaled sharply and set the photo down.
There was no time for nostalgia. No room for what-ifs.
She stuffed the frame beneath a pile of old notebooks and zipped the suitcase shut.
She was going to Paris. That was final.
---
At precisely 6:00 p.m., a loud knock echoed through the apartment. Lena opened the front door to see Tasha grinning on the other side, oversized sunglasses on her head, hoodie sleeves pushed up her arms, travel mug in one hand.
“You look like you’ve been to war,” she said, pushing inside without waiting for an invitation.
“I feel like I have,” Lena muttered.
Tasha surveyed the packed suitcase and nodded. “So it’s really happening, huh?”
“It’s happening.”
Tasha looked at her for a long beat. “Any regrets?”
Lena didn’t answer right away. She looked around the apartment—at the bookshelf Damian built for her, the blanket he picked out, the mug he’d bought in Venice with her initials. Then she met Tasha’s gaze.
“Yeah. A few.”
Tasha didn’t press. She just picked up the suitcase handle and said, “Let’s go.”
---
The drive to the airport was bathed in amber light. The sun dipped below the horizon, washing the city in hues of fire and shadow. Lena watched the familiar streets roll past, soaking in every intersection, every corner store, every crack in the sidewalk like it might be the last time.
Tasha played a quiet indie playlist, humming along under her breath. They didn’t talk much.
When the terminal finally appeared ahead, Lena’s stomach twisted.
The sliding doors. The people rushing in and out with backpacks, suitcases, children. The announcements overhead. Everything smelled like metal and coffee and tension.
Inside, Lena stood at the check-in kiosk, hands slightly trembling as she fed her passport and printed her boarding pass. Her fingers brushed the edge of the paper as if it might vanish if she let go.
She turned to Tasha. “Still time to back out.”
“You’re not backing out,” Tasha said. “You’re just scared. That’s normal. It means it matters.”
Lena took a deep breath. “I feel like I’m leaving everything behind.”
“You’re not leaving it behind,” Tasha said softly. “You’re making space for something new.”
They reached the security gate. Lena’s throat tightened.
“Okay,” she said, blinking fast. “I guess this is it.”
Tasha pulled her into a fierce hug, one arm around her neck, the other pressing against her back like she could physically keep her whole.
“You’re going to be amazing,” she whispered. “You’re going to take Paris by storm. Just don’t forget to call me when you’re sad, or drunk, or lonely, or famous. Especially famous.”
Lena laughed through the tears that had snuck into her voice. “I love you.”
“More than croissants.”
They broke apart slowly.
Lena stepped forward. One foot, then the other. She handed over her boarding pass and ID. The TSA agent waved her through.
She turned once, just once, to see Tasha still standing there, hands in her pockets, eyes glassy with pride and heartbreak.
Lena lifted her hand in a quiet wave.
Then she disappeared into the security line.
---
The airport terminal was sterile and bright. Lena found her gate with time to spare. She sat near the window and stared out at the darkening tarmac. Planes taxied in and out of view. Announcements crackled overhead. Children laughed. A woman nearby spoke rapid French into a phone.
It hit her then—this wasn’t a dream. This was real.
She was really leaving.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Damian.
> Have a safe flight.
She stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then she typed:
> Thank you. I wish things were different.
But she didn’t hit send. After a moment, she erased it and typed only:
> You too.
Then she locked the phone and placed it in her bag.
The gate agent called her boarding group.
Lena stood. Gripped her passport. Slid on her backpack. And walked toward the door that would carry her to the sky.
As she stepped onto the jet bridge, the weight in her chest shifted—not disappeared, but changed.
She was scared.
She was heartbroken.
But she was also free.
And that was something worth chasing.
- Writer
