Love At Last

Before The Distance

The days leading up to our departure from New York City were a whirlwind—full of noise, nostalgia, and the quiet tension that comes before something life-changing. Vile and I were deep in preparation for our move to college. Each day felt like a countdown to the inevitable, and though we smiled and laughed, we both knew what was coming.

We kept ourselves busy—shopping for dorm essentials, attending goodbye dinners, checking in with friends, and exchanging little gifts we hoped would mean something when we were far apart. But the part I’ll always remember is our last-minute tradition: marking our favorite trees and benches in the neighborhood and the park we grew up in. We carved our initials, scribbled inside jokes, or left small, cryptic messages we only would understand. Those marks were our way of leaving breadcrumbs, hoping we’d always find our way back—to the place, and to each other.

As the days ticked by, reality settled deeper into our bones. We were going to be apart. Really apart. Different cities, different states, different dreams. We tried not to dwell on it too much, but it lingered under every word and glance.

Three days before our departure, our plane tickets arrived—another physical reminder that the clock was running out. We began packing in earnest, going over lists, checking and rechecking to make sure we weren’t forgetting anything. Vile helped me fold clothes and roll posters, while I helped him stuff chargers and notebooks into his overstuffed backpack. Every task carried the weight of a goodbye.

On our last evening together, we didn’t go out or try to make it to a grand event. Instead, we stayed in—just like we had on countless other weekends. Vile slept over at my place, and we did everything and nothing. We re-watched some of our favorite movies, flipped through old books and photo albums, and filled the silence with laughter. We shared memories like old songs, reciting lines and moments in perfect harmony.

At some point, the exhaustion of the week caught up to us. We fell asleep on the floor of my room, side by side, surrounded by empty popcorn bowls and tangled blankets. It was a night soaked in emotion, but we didn’t say the heavy things out loud. We just stayed close.

The next morning, the sun hadn’t even risen when my mom knocked gently and stepped into the room.

“It’s time,” she said softly.

I blinked awake, disoriented, then remembered. Today was the day. The start of everything new—and the end of everything familiar.

My flight was scheduled for 9 a.m. Vile would leave a couple of hours later at 11. After a quick breakfast, I walked him to the front door, my heart pounding with every step.

We stood there for a moment, not speaking. Vile reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. My brows furrowed.

“I wanted you to have this,” he said, placing it in my palm.

Inside was a delicate gold necklace, and hanging from it were the engraved initials NM—my initials. Nataly Miller.

I blinked fast, surprised. My fingers curled around the charm, and my lips parted into a slow, grateful smile.

“Vile…”

“I know it’s cheesy,” he said with a nervous laugh. “But maybe, every time you wear it, you’ll think of all this.”

I couldn’t find words. I just wrapped my arms around him and held on. I felt the weight in his hug—the quiet fear, the stubborn hope, the thousand things we weren’t saying. He held me tighter than usual, and I could feel the tremble in his chest. He was trying not to cry. And so was I.

When we pulled apart, I reached into the pocket of my hoodie and handed him a small wrapped bundle.

“I made you something too.”

He opened it slowly. Inside was a woven bracelet—threads in blue, black, and silver, braided around tiny beads and smoothed stones we’d collected on random adventures. It was simple but personal, handmade with care.

“I want you to feel like I’m still with you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Even when I’m not.”

He slipped the bracelet on without a word, then looked up at me and smiled. “You always know what I need.”

We hugged again. This time it felt final.

And then, I ran upstairs to get dressed and finish packing. I didn’t look back until I was safely in my room, clutching the necklace in my hand.

I promised myself I’d never take it off. Not through long nights or hard days. It wasn’t just a gift. It was a memory, a tether, a promise. A piece of him, wrapped around my heart.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. My mom and I drove to the airport. I said a teary goodbye to my family. My luggage rattled behind me as we made our way through security. But my thoughts were miles away—with Vile.

As the plane lifted off, I stared out the window at the city shrinking beneath me. The skyline I’d grown up with became a toy version of itself. I felt excited and terrified all at once. My new life was waiting. But so was the ache of distance.

College came at me fast. Orientation, roommates, new classes, new names. I smiled when I was supposed to. I made friends and explored campus. But nothing felt quite right at first. At night, I’d lie in my dorm room, running my fingers over the necklace. I’d think about our last walk through Central Park. About the marks we left behind. About the moment at the door.

Vile was going through the same thing, I was sure. I texted him every evening and sent blurry pictures of campus squirrels and coffee carts. He’d reply with memes, class updates, and the occasional “Miss this.”

Even though we were apart, he was still part of my day—like a rhythm I carried with me.

And every time I touched the necklace, I remembered: This wasn’t goodbye.

It was just a new kind of together.