With Him

Chapter Three: When Distance Teaches the Heart

The first week without Adrian felt longer than the entire semester before he left.

Time stretched in strange ways—slow in the mornings when I reached for my phone hoping for a message, and too fast at night when exhaustion finally pulled me into sleep.

He kept his promise.

He called.

Not every hour. Not constantly. But enough.

Enough to remind me that whatever this was between us—it hadn’t disappeared with the miles.

---

The first call came three nights after he arrived home.

I was in bed, surrounded by open textbooks I hadn’t actually read. My phone vibrated against my pillow, and my heart jumped when his name lit up the screen.

“Hey,” I answered, trying to sound calm.

“Hey.”

The sound of his voice—clear but slightly softer through the phone—sent a rush of warmth through me.

“How’s your mom?” I asked gently.

There was a pause on the other end.

“She’s stable,” he said. “Tired. But she smiled when I got here.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

I could hear faint background noise—maybe hospital equipment, maybe a television.

“Are you at the hospital?” I asked.

“Yeah. She’s asleep right now.”

I pictured him sitting beside her bed, shoulders slightly hunched, hand wrapped around his phone.

“Are you okay?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t realize how small she looked,” he said finally. “She’s always been… strong. Seeing her like that—it messes with you.”

My chest tightened.

“I wish I could do something,” I murmured.

“You are.”

“How?”

“You’re listening.”

The simplicity of that answer made my throat ache.

We talked for almost an hour that night. About his sister trying to be brave. About the smell of disinfectant in hospital hallways. About how different everything felt from campus life.

Before hanging up, there was a quiet moment.

“I miss you,” he said.

My breath caught.

“I miss you too.”

It wasn’t dramatic.

But it was real.

---

The days settled into a rhythm.

Morning classes. Study sessions with Lianne. Occasional teasing from classmates who noticed Adrian’s absence.

“You two were practically attached,” one of them said.

I didn’t know how to explain what we were.

We hadn’t labeled anything.

But the space he left behind felt personal.

Everywhere I looked, there were reminders.

The library window seat.

The acacia tree.

The hallway where he first tried to push me away.

I realized something during those quiet walks across campus—

Love doesn’t always grow in loud, obvious ways.

Sometimes it builds in shared silences.

In soft touches.

In the way someone waits until you’re safely inside before they leave.

---

Two weeks passed.

Then three.

His mother’s surgery came and went.

He called me the night before.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to be strong for everyone all the time,” I said. “You can just be scared.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“Stay on the line?”

“As long as you need.”

I stayed.

Even when neither of us spoke.

Even when all I could hear was the faint hum of the hospital corridor.

The next day felt endless.

I checked my phone between classes, during lectures, even while brushing my teeth.

Finally, late afternoon, it rang.

“She’s out,” he said immediately.

“And?”

“She’s okay.”

The relief in his voice broke something open in my chest.

I sat down on the edge of my bed.

“Thank God.”

“She’s going to need time to recover. But… she’s okay.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

“You did it,” I whispered.

He let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped for weeks.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not leaving.”

I closed my eyes.

“I told you,” I said softly. “One day at a time.”

---

But even when things improve, uncertainty doesn’t disappear overnight.

His mother’s recovery meant he had to stay longer.

At least another month.

Maybe more.

“Do you regret it?” he asked one evening.

“Regret what?”

“Starting this. With me.”

The question caught me off guard.

“No.”

“You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I don’t need to.”

There was a soft silence.

“I think about you all the time,” he admitted. “In the middle of everything, I’ll just… picture you. Sitting by the window in class. Or pretending not to laugh at Lianne’s jokes.”

I smiled.

“I do not pretend.”

“You absolutely do.”

His laughter through the phone was lighter than it had been in weeks.

“I wish I was there,” he said after a moment.

“Me too.”

“I keep thinking about that night. Under the tree.”

My cheeks warmed even though he couldn’t see me.

“So do I.”

“If I close my eyes, I can still feel it.”

My heart skipped.

“Feel what?”

“You.”

The word lingered between us.

Distance does strange things.

It sharpens longing.

Turns small memories into something luminous.

---

Back on campus, midterms approached quickly.

Without Adrian’s steady presence beside me, studying felt different.

I missed our quiet debates. The way he’d challenge my interpretations. The way he’d lean closer when he was trying to make a point.

One afternoon, as I sat alone in the library, someone slid into the chair across from me.

“Is this seat taken?”

I looked up.

It was Daniel.

A classmate from another course. Friendly. Outgoing. Always smiling.

“No,” I replied politely.

He began making casual conversation—about assignments, professors, campus gossip.

It was harmless.

Normal.

But halfway through, I realized something uncomfortable.

I kept comparing him.

The way he laughed too loudly.

The way he didn’t really listen before speaking.

The way his eyes wandered when he talked.

And suddenly, I understood something clearly.

What I felt for Adrian wasn’t just convenience.

It wasn’t proximity.

It wasn’t habit.

It was choice.

---

That night, I told Adrian about Daniel.

Not to make him jealous.

Just because I wanted to be honest.

He went quiet for a moment.

“Do you like him?” he asked carefully.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s not you.”

The truth slipped out before I could filter it.

Silence.

Then:

“You don’t make this easy.”

“I’m not trying to.”

He exhaled softly.

“I don’t want to hold you back.”

“You’re not.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t promise I’ll be back next week,” he said. “Or even the week after.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you waiting around if—”

“I’m not waiting around,” I interrupted gently. “I’m living my life. You’re just part of it.”

Another pause.

“You say things like that,” he murmured, “and I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Luck.

I wasn’t sure that was the right word.

Because loving someone during the easy moments is simple.

Loving someone through uncertainty—

That’s a choice you make every day.

---

A month after he left, I received a message in the middle of class.

Adrian: I might be coming back sooner than we thought.

My heart leapt.

Me: What? When?

Three dots appeared.

Then:

Adrian: Mom’s recovery is going well. My aunt is staying with her. She told me I should go back.

I barely heard the rest of the lecture.

After class, I called him immediately.

“Is it real?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding almost disbelieving himself. “I booked a ticket for next week.”

Next week.

The word felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“When?” I asked.

“Thursday.”

That was three days away.

“I’ll pick you up,” I said without thinking.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

He laughed softly.

“I’ve missed that.”

“What?”

“You.”

My chest tightened.

“I’ve missed you too.”

---

The days leading up to his return felt electric.

Everything seemed brighter.

Even Lianne noticed.

“You’re glowing,” she said suspiciously.

“Am not.”

“You are. He’s coming back, isn’t he?”

I tried to play it cool.

“Maybe.”

She grinned. “I knew it.”

Thursday arrived faster than I expected.

I stood outside the bus terminal, nerves buzzing in my veins. The sky was clear, sunlight reflecting off the pavement.

Every time the doors opened, my heart jumped.

Then—

I saw him.

Stepping down from the bus, backpack slung over one shoulder.

For a second, everything else faded.

He looked the same.

And different.

A little thinner.

A little more tired.

But when his eyes found mine—

That same quiet intensity returned.

We both froze.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then he walked toward me.

Not rushed.

Not hesitant.

Certain.

“Hi,” he said when he reached me.

“Hi.”

Up close, I could see the faint shadows under his eyes.

“You look exhausted,” I said softly.

“You look exactly the same.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s perfect.”

And before I could overthink it—

He pulled me into his arms.

The hug wasn’t dramatic.

It was tight.

Secure.

Like he’d been holding himself together for weeks and finally allowed himself to relax.

I buried my face against his chest, breathing him in.

He felt solid.

Real.

“You’re here,” I whispered.

“I told you I’d come back.”

---

We walked slowly back toward campus, shoulders brushing.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

We didn’t need to.

The silence felt different now.

Full.

Comfortable.

“How is she?” I asked eventually.

“Better. Still recovering. But she made me promise to live my life.”

“That sounds like her.”

He smiled faintly.

“She likes you.”

My heart skipped.

“She’s never met me.”

“I told her about you.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, trying not to smile too much.

He nudged my shoulder gently.

“She said if I let you go, she’d be disappointed.”

“Your mom said that?”

“Yeah.”

Warmth flooded my chest.

“That’s… terrifying.”

He laughed.

“She just wants me to be happy.”

“And are you?”

He stopped walking.

Turned to face me fully.

“With you?”

He reached for my hands.

“Yeah.”

The certainty in his voice made my breath catch.

“Then don’t push me away again,” I said softly.

“I won’t.”

“You promise?”

He nodded.

“I was scared before,” he admitted. “I thought loving someone meant risking losing them.”

“And now?”

“I think not loving someone might be worse.”

My heart felt too big for my chest.

“Adrian,” I whispered.

He stepped closer.

“Being away from you made things clear,” he continued. “I don’t want distance. I don’t want ‘what if.’ I want this.”

“This?” I echoed.

“You. Me. Trying.”

The simplicity of it made tears sting behind my eyes.

“You don’t need to protect me from your life,” I said again.

“I know.”

“And I’m not fragile.”

“I know that too.”

He brushed his thumb lightly over my cheek.

“And I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”

The words settled deep.

Solid.

Certain.

“Good,” I whispered.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against mine.

“No more running,” he murmured.

“No more.”

This kiss wasn’t tentative like the first.

It wasn’t rushed either.

It was steady.

Intentional.

A quiet agreement sealed in the space between us.

When we pulled apart, the world felt different.

Not because everything was suddenly perfect.

But because we had chosen each other—

Even with uncertainty.

Even with fear.

---

That night, as I lay in bed replaying the day, I realized something important.

Love isn’t about never facing distance.

It’s about what survives it.

The waiting.

The doubt.

The quiet nights filled with missing someone.

All of it had taught me something.

It taught me that what we had wasn’t built on convenience.

It wasn’t fragile.

It was patient.

And maybe—

That’s what makes it real.

My phone buzzed on my nightstand.

Adrian: I’m glad you waited at the bus terminal.

I smiled.

Me: I told you. One day at a time.

Almost instantly:

Adrian: With you.

I stared at those two words.

With you.

Simple.

But somehow—

They meant everything.

And for the first time since that rainy afternoon under the umbrella—

I wasn’t afraid of what came next.

Because whatever it was—

I knew I wouldn’t be facing it alone.

Not anymore.

Not when it came to him.

---

End of Chapter Three