Chapter 15: Distance, Desire, and Decisions
The morning sun filtered through sheer curtains as Emma zipped up her final suitcase. Her room was nearly bare—only a few books, her sketchpad, and a Polaroid of her and Jake remained on the desk. She ran her fingers across the image, heart aching.
Four weeks.
Twenty-eight days without his voice in person, his arms around her waist, or the grounding stillness of just being with him.
"You sure about this?" her mom asked from the doorway, watching carefully.
Emma turned, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I need this."
Her mom smiled. "Then go. Chase every damn dream, baby."
---
The train to Chicago was a blur of motion and nerves. Emma sat by the window, headphones in, staring out as trees morphed into cityscapes. She clutched her sketchpad like armor.
Jake had kissed her goodbye at the station, trying to be strong, but she saw the crack in his eyes.
"I'll call you every night," he whispered.
Emma smiled through the tears. "Even if I'm tired."
"Even if it's just to say hi."
"Even if we're different."
He'd paused, brow furrowed. "Promise me something?"
"Anything."
"Don't shrink to fit in. Be loud. Be you."
She squeezed his hand. "Always."
---
Northwestern's art dorm smelled like paint, coffee, and potential.
Emma shared a suite with two other girls — Cassidy, a fashion design major from LA, and Noor, a moody photographer from Jersey who wore combat boots with her pajamas.
"You're from where?" Cassidy asked as they unpacked.
"Just...a small town," Emma replied.
Noor raised an eyebrow. "Small towns have talent. Let's see what you've got."
Emma chuckled nervously and unzipped her portfolio.
By the end of the night, they were drinking canned sparkling water on the windowsill, complimenting each other's techniques and laughing over horror stories of their first crushes.
Jake texted around ten.
Jake: "How's day one, Picasso?"
Emma: "Scary. Amazing. Everything smells like glue."
Jake: "Sounds like paradise. Call me when you're free?"
Emma: "Always."
---
Days passed in color.
Emma painted for six hours a day — still lifes, emotional portraits, abstract themes — her fingers stained and heart full. She sent Jake daily pictures of her progress: a dreamy sunset piece he said reminded him of their lake; a bold canvas in hues of red and gold that, though she didn't admit it, captured the burn of their goodbye.
But things were different.
Calls grew shorter. His world kept moving too—football camp, summer shifts at his uncle's garage, late-night hangs with friends she didn't recognize.
One night, his voice was clipped.
"Sorry, Em. I forgot you were calling."
She blinked. "I always call at ten."
"I know, I just lost track. Sorry. Today was insane."
A pause.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah. Just tired."
"I miss you."
"I miss you too."
But it felt... hollow.
---
Week two brought Elijah.
He was a second-year painting mentor with wild curls, a pierced eyebrow, and a laugh that made entire rooms turn. He noticed Emma's work on the second day of critique.
"You paint like you're bleeding," he said. "It's honest."
Emma blushed. "That a compliment?"
"The highest kind."
They started talking — first about technique, then about hometowns, heartbreaks, and the places art can go when words fail. He was magnetic, but never flirty — just real, present, raw.
Still, her stomach twisted when he said her name.
And twisted harder when he asked, one rainy afternoon, "So. The boy back home... what's he like?"
She hesitated. "Steady. Good. Safe."
Elijah raised a brow. "And you? You ever want wild?"
She didn't answer.
---
Back home, Jake noticed the difference.
Her voice had changed. It had edges now—tired, distant.
He sent voice notes. Poems. Little clips of his guitar.
But when he asked to visit on the weekend, she paused.
"I don't know if I'll have time. We've got back-to-back workshops."
"It's just one day."
"I know, I just... I don't want to get distracted."
"Am I a distraction now?"
She flinched. "No. Jake, that's not what I meant—"
But he'd already hung up.
---
That night, she cried into her pillow.
Noor found her and sat quietly at the edge of the bed.
"Let me guess," Noor said. "Boy back home?"
Emma nodded, sniffing. "He's everything."
"Sometimes everything can become too much when you're changing."
Emma looked at her. "I don't want to lose him."
"Then don't. But also… don't lose yourself."
---
Week three.
The studio announced a mini-showcase for residents. Each artist had to create one final piece representing "transformation."
Emma panicked.
She sketched furiously, scrapped three canvases, then started fresh at 3 AM one night — Elijah watching quietly from a corner as she brought her vision to life.
It was her and Jake. Silhouettes in gold and navy.
Two hands reaching for each other through time — not touching, but glowing where the fingertips almost met.
When she finished, Elijah looked at it and said, "You love him."
Emma nodded.
"But you're still growing away from him."
Her chest clenched. "What does that mean?"
"It means sometimes, love survives distance. Sometimes it doesn't. But either way, this? This is art."
---
The night before the showcase, Jake called.
His voice was quiet.
"I saw a picture online. That painting of yours. The one with the two figures."
Emma held her breath. "Yeah?"
"Are we those hands?"
She swallowed. "Yes."
Silence.
Then: "Emma... I love you. But I don't know if I can keep feeling like I'm losing pieces of you every day."
Her throat tightened. "I don't want that."
"Then come home."
"I can't."
"Then tell me what we're doing."
Emma looked out the window. Her reflection stared back, tear-streaked and unsure.
"I don't know anymore."
---
The next night, she stood beside her painting, hands shaking as critics and artists circled.
Elijah came over, looking proud. "You poured your soul into that."
"I think I also broke it."
He nodded slowly. "That's when it's most real."
A young woman approached. "This piece… it feels like longing. Like hope and heartbreak at once."
Emma smiled, voice soft. "That's exactly what it is."
---
That night, Jake didn't call.
And Emma didn't text first.
---
The final week passed in a daze. Emma woke early, painted late, and let herself drift.
She didn't know what she and Jake were anymore. The label "together" felt too tight; "apart" felt too cruel.
On her last night, Cassidy threw a goodbye party. Music blasted, kids danced barefoot, and someone passed Emma a Sharpie.
"Write on the memory wall," Noor said.
Emma walked up, uncapped the pen, and scrawled:
Love doesn't always mean holding on.
Sometimes, it means letting go... and trusting what comes back.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Then walked outside and called Jake.
---
"Hey," she whispered.
"Hey."
"I leave tomorrow."
"I know."
"I don't know where we stand."
Jake exhaled. "Me neither."
"I still love you."
He paused. "I love you too."
Tears pricked her eyes. "But I think we need to breathe. To find who we are on our own."
"Are we breaking up?"
"No. We're growing apart. That's different."
He was silent for a long time.
Then: "If it's meant to be…"
"It'll find a way," she finished.
And in that moment, her heart cracked open — not from pain, but from freedom.