Elior barely slept.
The unfinished message looped in his mind like a song cut off mid-chorus.
There's something I didn't tell you about the fellowship—
Every time he drifted toward rest, the sentence yanked him back. Not because of what it might mean, but because of how many meanings it could hold. He had learned that uncertainty wasn't the enemy—but this felt different. This felt like standing on a fault line, waiting to feel which way the ground would shift.
Morning arrived quietly.
Too quietly.
Sunlight spilled across the apartment, catching dust in the air, illuminating the envelope on the table like a silent witness. Elior stood there longer than he meant to, coffee cooling in his hand, the weight of the day pressing down before it had even begun.
He didn't open the envelope.
He didn't message Mira.
He waited.
Hours passed.
He went through the motions of work, answering emails, joining calls, nodding at the right moments while his attention hovered elsewhere. Every vibration of his phone made his pulse jump. Every minute without one felt heavier than the last.
At noon, he couldn't take it anymore.
He stepped outside, letting the city noise ground him. The familiar streets looked altered somehow—edges sharper, colors more intense. As if the world sensed a decision approaching and had decided to heighten everything in response.
He texted her.
When you're ready, I'm here.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then vanished.
Then appeared again.
His chest tightened.
I'm at the river, Mira replied. The café side.
Relief and dread tangled in his stomach.
I'm coming, he typed.
She was already seated when he arrived, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn't touched. Her posture was composed, but her eyes betrayed exhaustion—the kind that came from carrying too much alone.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hey."
They didn't hug this time.
They sat across from each other, the table between them feeling larger than it should have.
"You didn't finish your message," Elior said gently.
Mira nodded. "I know."
He waited.
She stared out the window for a moment, watching the river move.
"The fellowship," she began, "isn't just two years."
Elior's stomach dropped.
"What do you mean?"
She turned back to him, eyes steady now, as if she had already accepted whatever followed.
"It comes with an option," she said. "A permanent placement. If they extend it. Most people who take it… don't come back."
The words hit him like a slow wave.
Not violent.
But undeniable.
"Oh," he said.
It was the only word that came.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't want to influence you," she continued. "Or trap you into responding out of fear."
Elior absorbed that.
"I appreciate that," he said honestly. "But I wish I'd known."
"I know," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."
Silence fell again.
This one felt heavier than all the others.
Elior stared at the table, the grain of the wood suddenly fascinating.
Permanent.
The word echoed in his chest.
This wasn't just distance.
It was divergence.
A fork in the road where one path might not loop back.
"Have you opened it?" he asked.
She nodded. "Last night."
His breath caught.
"And?"
Mira inhaled deeply. "They want me there in six weeks."
Six weeks.
Time collapsed inward.
"That's soon," he said.
"Yes."
"And the other opportunity?" he asked. "The one here?"
She shook her head. "It's solid. Safe. But it doesn't light me up the same way."
Elior nodded slowly.
He recognized that feeling.
"I don't want to make this about sacrifice," Mira said. "But I also don't want to pretend it's neutral."
"It isn't," Elior agreed.
She watched him carefully. "What are you thinking?"
He took a breath.
"That I've spent most of my life believing love meant staying," he said. "And now I'm realizing sometimes love means letting someone go where they need to grow."
Her eyes glistened.
"And how do you feel about that realization?"
"Like it's true," he said. "And unbearable."
Mira let out a shaky laugh. "That sounds about right."
They sat quietly, the river flowing past, indifferent to human ache.
"I'm afraid," Mira admitted, "that if I stay, I'll always wonder who I could've been."
"And I'm afraid," Elior replied, "that if you go, I'll learn how to live without you—and I don't want to."
She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his.
"That's the cruel part," she said softly. "We're not breaking because we don't love each other."
"No," he said. "We're breaking because we do."
Elior felt the old instinct stir—the urge to protect himself by retreating, by simplifying the narrative, by convincing himself that this was inevitable and therefore survivable.
He pushed it aside.
"This isn't about control," he said. "And it's not about clinging. It's about choice."
Mira nodded. "Yes."
"And I won't choose for you," he continued. "But I need to be honest about what I can and can't do."
Her fingers tightened slightly around his.
"Okay."
"I can't promise to be unchanged by this," he said. "And I can't promise that distance won't hurt."
She swallowed.
"But I can promise," he added, "that if we try—really try—I won't disappear. I won't punish you for choosing growth. And I won't pretend it's easy when it isn't."
Mira's breath trembled.
"And if we don't try?" she asked.
Elior closed his eyes briefly.
"Then I'll grieve," he said. "And I'll carry the knowledge that we chose honesty over fear. But I don't know how long it would take me to forgive myself."
She looked at him then, really looked at him, as if measuring not his words—but his readiness.
"I've never been loved like this," she said quietly.
He smiled sadly. "I've never loved like this."
The symmetry again.
They walked together along the river afterward, side by side, not touching. Each step felt deliberate, weighted.
"I need to ask you something," Mira said suddenly.
"Anything."
"If I go," she said, "will you wait?"
The question pierced him.
Not because it was unfair—but because it was impossible.
"I don't believe in waiting the way I used to," he said carefully. "I don't want to pause my life or ask you to pause yours."
She nodded slowly.
"But," he continued, "I believe in choosing each other again and again—if the choice still makes sense."
Mira stopped walking.
"So you're saying there's no guarantee."
"Yes," he said softly. "But there's intention."
She looked at the river.
"That might be harder than certainty," she said.
"It is," he agreed. "But it's also real."
They resumed walking.
At the end of the path, Mira stopped.
"This is where I turn back," she said.
Elior nodded.
They stood there, facing each other, the city moving around them as if nothing monumental was happening.
"I need tonight," Mira said. "One more night to decide."
"I understand."
She hesitated, then leaned in and kissed him.
Not desperate.
Not final.
But full.
When she pulled away, her eyes were wet.
"Whatever happens," she said, "you taught me that love doesn't have to be earned by shrinking."
His chest ached.
"And you taught me," he replied, "that choosing without control is still choosing."
She smiled faintly.
Then she turned and walked away.
That night, Elior returned to the apartment and finally did what he had avoided all day.
He picked up the envelope.
His hands were steady.
He didn't open it.
Instead, he wrote.
Not to plan.
Not to brace.
But to tell the truth.
If love is worth anything, he wrote, it must allow growth—even when growth threatens proximity.
He closed the notebook and set it aside.
His phone buzzed.
A message.
From Mira.
I need you to know this before tomorrow.
His heart raced.
Another message followed immediately.
If I go… it won't be because you weren't enough.
Elior exhaled, a mix of relief and grief crashing through him.
Then the final message appeared.
But there's something else involved. Something that changes the timeline.
He stared at the screen.
Typed.
What do you mean?
The typing indicator appeared.
Paused.
Appeared again.
Then disappeared completely.
Minutes passed.
No reply.
Elior sat there, the silence thick and ominous, the realization settling slowly but unmistakably:
Tomorrow wouldn't just bring a decision.
It would bring a truth he wasn't prepared for.
🌑 End of Chapter Forty-Six