Always

Chapter Twenty

Mia

The dorm is quiet at last. My roommate is out for the evening, probably exploring the campus or meeting friends, and I finally have a moment to breathe. I sink onto my bed, laptop open, phone balanced on my knee, and scroll through the messages Liam and I have been sending all day.

Each one feels like a tether—tiny, fragile, but real.

Miss you.

Miss you more.

I’m proud of you already.

I bite my lip, trying not to let the ache of missing him turn into panic.

It’s strange how fast life can change. Yesterday, I was climbing into Liam’s car, waving goodbye, feeling the weight of our whole summer pressing down. Today, I’m in a new city, unpacking boxes, staring at unfamiliar walls, trying to convince myself that I belong here.

The truth? I do belong here. I’ve earned this. But my heart—the part of me that has always been tethered to Liam—feels like it’s halfway still in our small town, halfway sitting on the roof with him, tracing constellations with our fingers.

I pick up my phone and dial him anyway. I don’t wait for the text. I need to hear his voice.

“Hey,” he says immediately, like he’s been waiting.

“Hey,” I whisper, holding the phone too close.

“How’s it feel?” he asks. His voice is calm, grounding.

“Scary,” I admit. “Exciting. Overwhelming.”

“I figured.” There’s a small laugh in his voice. “Want me to tell you it’s going to be fine?”

“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head even though he can’t see me. “Just… talk to me.”

So he does. He talks about his day, his work in the garage, the dumb joke his little brother tried to tell him, the new book he’s pretending to read but really just flips through. And with every word, I feel a little of my fear fade.

By the time we hang up, the sun has set, painting the sky outside my window in bruised purple and gold. I sit back and take a deep breath. For the first time, the dorm doesn’t feel empty.

I’m somewhere new. I’m chasing my dreams. I’m terrified, yes, but I’m not alone. Liam is there, three states away, steady, constant.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m learning. Love isn’t about proximity. It’s about presence. Even when miles stretch between us, we’re still here—holding, supporting, tethered in a way distance can’t break.

I set my phone down and smile, letting the quiet settle around me. For the first time, I feel the weight lift, replaced by something lighter. Hope. Promise.

And I know we’re going to be okay.

Because we always find a way back to each other.