Chapter 4: The Distance Between Us
680 Words
The following week passed in quiet rhythm. Mornings were spent at the gallery, afternoons in separate classrooms, evenings lost in different cities. Solene traveled back home on weekends, to the noise of her younger siblings and the narrow streets of a small town where no one cared about art or kinetic sculptures. Eli stayed in the city, alone in his apartment, building prototypes and video calling his mom when he remembered to eat.
They didn’t talk every day. Not much, at least. A random meme. A photo of a half-finished sculpture. A close-up of a paint-smudged thumb. The messages were small, but they held weight. They meant, I’m thinking of you, even when you’re not here.
One night, after a long call with her mother, Solene stared at her cracked phone screen. Eli had messaged her three hours ago: “Hope you got home safe.” That was all. She hadn’t replied. Not because she didn’t care, but because she did.
She typed and erased her reply three times before finally settling on, “I did. Thanks.”
A few seconds passed before the three dots appeared.
“Glad. I’ve been building all day. I forgot how annoying small screws are.”
She smiled, leaning back on her pillow.
“I paint for five hours and feel like I got hit by a truck,” she typed.
“Still worth it?”
“I think so.”
There was a pause. Then he sent another message.
“I’d wait again, you know. Even if this takes years.”
Her heart skipped. She stared at the words, reading them again and again. He meant it. And she wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
She typed, then stopped. Then typed again.
“You shouldn’t.”
He replied almost instantly. “Why?”
“Because I don’t know if I’ll ever be what you want.”
There it was. Her fear. In black and white pixels.
Eli’s response didn’t come right away. She waited, her pulse loud in her ears. Maybe this was it. Maybe he’d finally realize she wasn’t worth the time, the patience, the hope.
Then her phone vibrated.
“You already are.”
Solene didn’t reply. She didn’t know how. She just stared at the screen until her eyes burned.
The next day at the exhibit hall, they didn’t speak about the message. They worked like usual, but the air between them was charged, like something invisible had shifted. They stood closer. Their glances lingered longer.
At one point, she bent to grab a dropped paintbrush, and when she stood, Eli was there, holding a rag.
“You’ve got paint on your cheek,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “You offering to wipe it off or just telling me?”
He laughed, gently brushing the spot with the edge of the cloth. His fingers didn’t touch her skin, but she felt them anyway.
“You know,” she said, looking up at him, “you’re hard to ignore.”
“You’ve been trying?”
“Not very well.”
Their eyes locked. For a moment, the room faded. The projects, the paint, the half-assembled lights, all of it disappeared. There was just her and him, and the quiet hum of something unspoken between them.
She looked away first, stepping back.
“I’m not ready,” she said again, voice soft.
“I know,” he replied, just as softly. “And I’m not rushing.”
It wasn’t just age or distance or timing that made this complicated. It was the unknown. The waiting. The fear that one day they’d look at each other and realize they’d grown too far apart.
But still, he stayed.
And still, she let him.
Later that night, as they parted ways outside the gallery, Eli paused. He didn’t reach for her hand. Didn’t ask for anything.
“Do you think we’ll make it?” he asked quietly.
Solene met his gaze.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think... we both want to.”
And sometimes, that was enough.
- Writer
