Distance arrived slowly.
Not as an absence, but as a quiet rearranging of Elior's days.
Mira was no longer beside him in the mornings, no longer a familiar warmth at his side as the city woke up. Her messages came in different time zones now—sometimes while he slept, sometimes while he sat alone beneath the oak tree that had become both sanctuary and reminder.
Elior learned quickly that missing someone wasn't dramatic.
It was subtle.
It was reaching for his phone without thinking.
It was saving a thought and realizing he'd have to wait hours to share it.
It was hearing a song and feeling a sharp ache instead of joy.
But it was also something else.
It was proof.
---
He woke earlier than usual these days.
Without Mira's presence, mornings stretched wide and empty, and Elior found himself filling them intentionally. He ran along the river before school, lungs burning, heart pounding, the rhythm grounding him in his body. He cooked real breakfasts instead of skipping meals. He cleaned his apartment—not because he had to, but because order calmed him.
He didn't recognize this version of himself at first.
The boy who once waited to disappear was now learning how to arrive.
---
Mira called every Sunday.
They spoke for hours, voices overlapping, laughter echoing through speakers. She told him about the program—about the people she met, the challenges, the nights she lay awake missing home.
"I miss you," she said one evening, voice soft through the static.
"I miss you too," he replied. "But I'm okay."
She smiled. "That makes me happy. And sad."
"Me too," he admitted.
After the calls ended, Elior sometimes felt the old fear creep in—the worry that distance would dull them, that love needed constant closeness to survive.
But each time, Mira proved him wrong.
She stayed.
---
School shifted too.
Without Mira nearby, people stopped associating him as half of something. For the first time, Elior existed on his own terms.
Teachers noticed him more. Friends—actual friends—began to form around shared classes, shared jokes, shared silences. He joined a study group. He raised his hand during discussions.
The first time he heard his own voice speak with confidence, it startled him.
This is who I am now, he thought.
And instead of fear, he felt curiosity.
---
One afternoon, Jonah sat beside him during lunch.
"Didn't think you'd survive without her," Jonah said casually.
Old Elior would have shrunk.
New Elior smiled slightly. "Neither did I."
Jonah blinked. "You good?"
"I am," Elior said honestly. "I really am."
And it was true.
---
The letter came unexpectedly.
Handwritten. Mira's familiar slanted script across the envelope.
Elior held it carefully, as though opening it too quickly might damage something precious.
Inside were pages filled with thoughts she hadn't sent through messages—about loneliness, about growth, about missing him in ways that surprised her.
You taught me how to stay, she wrote. Even when I'm far away.
Elior reread that line until it felt stitched into him.
That night, he wrote back.
Not polished. Not perfect.
Just real.
---
Weeks passed.
Elior learned that being alone didn't mean being unloved. He learned that silence didn't always signal abandonment. He learned that love could exist without constant reassurance.
Most importantly, he learned something new about himself.
He liked who he was becoming.
---
The real test came when the past tried to re-enter again.
His father sent another message.
I heard you're doing well, it read. I'm glad.
Elior stared at the phone.
The urge to respond—to explain himself, to justify his happiness—rose up instinctively.
Then he stopped.
He didn't owe his healing to anyone.
He typed a short reply.
I am doing well. I hope you are too. I'm still not ready for more contact.
He sent it.
And felt no guilt.
---
One rainy evening, Elior returned to the oak tree alone.
The place looked the same. The grass still worn where they used to sit. The bark still rough beneath his fingers.
He sat down and closed his eyes.
For a moment, the old ache resurfaced.
Then something surprising happened.
He smiled.
Because this place no longer symbolized what he'd lost.
It symbolized what he'd grown beyond.
---
When Mira finally visited months later, the reunion wasn't frantic or desperate.
It was steady.
They met at the station, eyes locking instantly, and when they embraced, it felt like returning—not clinging.
"You're different," Mira murmured.
"So are you," he replied.
They walked hand in hand through the city, both noticing how easily they fit again—changed, but aligned.
That night, sitting on the roof, Mira asked softly, "Who were you when I wasn't here?"
Elior thought for a moment.
"I was still me," he said. "Just… louder."
She smiled, eyes shining. "I like him."
"So do I," he said.
And for the first time in his life, Elior believed that even if no one else was watching, he was still worthy of love.
Because he was finally watching himself.
---