look into my eyes

Chapter 7 — The Distance Between Us

For a while, everything felt easy again.

Ethan and Amara spent their mornings tangled in sunlight and coffee, their afternoons creating art side by side. Yet, under all the laughter, there was a quiet shift — the kind of change that sneaks in without warning.

Ethan had just landed his first big freelance job with a magazine in London.

It was everything he’d worked for, the chance to have his photos published internationally. But it also meant leaving — at least for a while.

When he told Amara, she smiled before he even finished speaking.

“That’s amazing,” she said, voice bright but eyes uncertain.

“It’s only for a few months,” he said quickly. “I’ll call every day. I’ll come back before you know it.”

Amara nodded. “Of course. You should go. You deserve this.”

But as soon as he left that night, she sat alone on her couch and whispered, “Why does every goodbye feel like a test?”

The day Ethan flew out, the city felt heavier. He took one last look at her before walking through security — her arms crossed, her smile trembling. He wanted to say don’t cry, but his own throat felt tight.

When he landed, the world around him moved fast. London was gray and thrilling, full of noise and new faces. He worked long hours, chasing light through rain-slicked streets, emailing edits at midnight.

Still, he called Amara every evening — sometimes just to hear her say “hi.”

But distance has a strange way of stretching things.

The calls grew shorter, sometimes missed. The time difference turned good mornings into goodnights.

Amara painted more, trying to fill the empty hours, but her colors came out darker than before — cooler blues, sharper lines.

She told herself it was just the art reflecting life. But deep down, she missed him so much it ached.

One night, after a long day, Ethan sat in his hotel room editing photos.

The images were beautiful — portraits of strangers laughing under umbrellas, hands holding coffee cups, the glint of streetlights in puddles. But every face blurred into one.

They weren’t her.

He opened his phone. There were unread texts from the magazine, but only one message he cared about — Amara’s.

Miss you. It’s raining here too. Feels emptier without you.

He stared at it, typed a dozen replies, deleted them all, then finally sent:

I miss you more than you know.

Meanwhile, back home, Amara walked past the art gallery where they first met. The exhibit had changed — new artists, new colors — but when she stopped at the spot where they’d first locked eyes, she smiled.

A memory like that didn’t fade easily.

Tessa appeared beside her, as if summoned by intuition.

“You’re thinking about him,” her friend said gently.

Amara laughed softly. “When am I not?”

“He’ll come back,” Tessa said. “The right ones always do.”

Amara wanted to believe that. She did.

But she also knew love wasn’t about waiting; it was about growing, even when someone wasn’t beside you.

So she went home and started a new painting — one of two figures standing on opposite sides of a vast ocean, their reflections reaching out to meet in the water’s shimmer.

At the bottom, she wrote in small letters:

Distance can’t silence the truth in our eyes.

Three months later, Ethan returned.

He didn’t tell her — he wanted to surprise her.

He went straight from the airport to the small gallery she loved most, camera bag over his shoulder, heart pounding.

And there she was — standing in front of one of her own paintings, brush still in hand, hair tied up messily.

For a long second, he didn’t move. He just looked.

Then she turned, saw him, and the paintbrush fell from her fingers.

“Ethan?” she whispered.

He smiled. “Told you I’d come back.”

She crossed the room and threw her arms around him before she could stop herself. He held her tight, breathing her in like he’d been underwater too long.

“I kept my promise,” he murmured. “I didn’t run.”

She looked up at him through tears, smiling. “Neither did I.”

That night, back at her apartment, she showed him the painting of the two figures across the ocean.

Ethan traced the words at the bottom with his finger. “You still believe that?”

“I do,” she said softly.

He took her hand. “Then let’s make sure we never have to test it again”.