Trapped in Between

The Day He Left

The days passed too quickly. Before I knew it, it was already time. Time for Ethan to leave.

The remaining weeks before his departure felt unreal, like we were trying to squeeze a lifetime into borrowed moments. We stayed closer than ever, as if physical closeness could somehow prepare us for the distance that was coming. Every hour mattered. Every second felt fragile.

We made promises about everything. When to call. When to text. What time zone worked best.

We sat together with our phones, checking the time difference between here and Canada, carefully agreeing on schedules like it was a sacred ritual. Morning messages. Night calls. Weekend video chats. We planned it all, convincing ourselves that love could survive through screens and signals.

“I’ll call you before classes,” he said.

“And I’ll text you when I get back from college,” I replied.

We even talked about how we should behave. How we wouldn’t let anyone come between us. How we’d stay focused on our goals. How we’d always choose each other no matter how tempting life became.

I promised him I would always be that girl. Strong. Loyal. Focused.

I was going to college too, and I told myself that distance wouldn’t change who I was or who we were. Still, deep down, fear quietly grew.

Then came the day I had been dreading. The departure day.

My heart skipped painfully as I watched Ethan pack his things. Every folded shirt, every zipped pocket felt like a reminder that this was really happening. I sat on the edge of his bed, trying to be brave while my chest tightened with every movement he made.

His mother moved around quietly, her presence gentle but heavy. She kept assuring us that distance wouldn’t break what we had, that love like ours didn’t disappear so easily.

“But it’s what the family decided,” she said softly.

I nodded, even though my heart screamed in protest.

I was so sad, so painfully sad, that it felt like my body didn’t know how to hold all the emotions at once. When Ethan finally finished closing his bag, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my necklace.

“Take this,” I said, my voice barely steady.

He looked at it, then at me, his eyes softening. In return, he removed his own necklace and placed it gently in my hand.

A silent promise. A symbol of never letting go, no matter what.

We walked together to the car, and his mother asked me to join them on the drive to the airport. I didn’t hesitate. I needed to be there. I needed to watch him leave, no matter how much it hurt.

At the airport, everything felt too loud. Too bright. Too fast. People were moving, laughing, rushing, while my world felt like it was slowing down.

When it was time for him to go, he pulled me into his arms. He held me so tightly that I could feel his heart pounding against mine. Tears rolled down his face. Mine too.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered into my hair. “I promise.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

I stood there, waving, until he disappeared from my sight, until there was nothing left but empty space where he had just been.

And then I broke.

I cried like my heart had been torn out of my chest. His mother didn’t leave my side. She held my hand gently, guiding me back to the car, her voice calm and reassuring.

“He will always visit during the holidays,” she said softly. “This is for his future. For the best.”

I thanked her, even though the words barely reached me.

When we arrived home, I ran straight to my room, closed the door, and collapsed onto my bed. I hugged my pillow tightly, pressing my face into it as memories flooded my mind. His laughter. His warmth. His arms around me.

Everything felt too quiet. Too empty.

A while later, my elder sister came in. She sat beside me and called my name softly.

“Arielle.”

I looked up at her with red, swollen eyes.

“Ethan is not going to die,” she said gently. “He’s just going to study.”

I let out a shaky breath.

“This phase is actually good,” she continued. “You’ll talk every day. Video calls, messages. It can even be fun. You’ll tell him what’s happening here, and he’ll tell you what Canada looks like. Maybe one day, you’ll even visit.”

Her words wrapped around my heart like a warm blanket. I hugged her tightly.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

That night, I lay awake imagining how our video calls would be. How his face would light up on my screen. How we’d laugh through the distance.

The next day, I rushed to our spot, the place where we always sat together. I recorded short videos, talking about how much I missed him, how strange everything felt without him beside me. I sent them to him, hoping he’d see them soon.

But there was no reply.

Hours passed.

Then, finally, a message came, but from a different number.

It was him.

He explained that he had changed his line and asked me to resend the video. My heart leapt with happiness. I sent it immediately.

Not long after, he sent his own video. He looked tired. Stressed. Overwhelmed by everything new around him, but he smiled when he spoke to me.

“This is what I wanted,” I whispered to myself.

This connection. This love.

And I prayed, more than anything, that it would continue.