The future announced itself on a Thursday morning, disguised as an envelope.
It was cream-colored, slightly bent at the corners, and addressed to Mira in neat, deliberate handwriting. She stared at it for a long moment before opening it, fingers hesitating as if she already knew its weight.
Elior noticed immediately.
They were sitting together on the steps outside school, the air cool and bright, the day ordinary in every way that mattered. Mira turned the envelope over once, then again, before finally sliding her finger beneath the seal.
"What is it?" Elior asked, trying to sound casual.
She exhaled slowly. "An acceptance letter."
His heart lifted instinctively. "That's amazing."
She nodded, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's for a summer program. Six months. Out of the city."
The word out echoed in his chest.
"Oh," he said.
She glanced at him quickly, as if gauging the damage. "It's a really good opportunity."
"I know," he replied. And he did. Mira had talked about it before—had mentioned, almost offhandedly, how competitive it was, how unlikely acceptance would be.
Six months.
Distance.
Time.
Three words that used to terrify him.
"I haven't said yes," she added. "I wanted to tell you first."
Elior nodded, swallowing the instinct to retreat. "I'm glad you did."
They sat in silence, the envelope resting between them like a fragile truth.
---
That night, Elior couldn't stop thinking about it.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, watching familiar fears try to resurface.
She'll go and realize life is easier without you.
You'll fade into a memory.
This is where it ends.
But another voice—newer, steadier—pushed back.
You don't get to decide her life for her.
Love isn't proven by proximity alone.
You can choose how you respond.
He breathed through the thoughts, letting them pass instead of burying them.
When sleep finally came, it was shallow but kind.
---
They talked the next afternoon, walking along the river where the water moved steadily forward, unconcerned with their indecision.
"I don't want to hold you back," Elior said.
Mira stopped walking. "I don't want you to think you ever could."
He met her gaze. "Then tell me what you're afraid of."
She hesitated. "That if I go… things will change."
"They will," he said honestly. "But change doesn't have to mean loss."
She studied his face. "You really believe that?"
"I'm learning to."
They resumed walking.
"What scares you?" she asked.
"That I'll go back to who I was," he admitted. "That without you nearby, I'll forget how to stay."
Mira reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. "Then we don't let distance erase what we've built."
"How?"
"We choose each other," she said. "Even when it's inconvenient."
The word choose still felt powerful every time she used it.
---
The decision hovered over them for days.
Mira researched logistics, deadlines, housing. Elior supported her without pretending it didn't hurt. They talked openly—about fears, expectations, boundaries.
One evening, sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, Mira closed her laptop and looked at him.
"If I go," she said carefully, "I don't want this to become a countdown to goodbye."
Elior nodded. "I don't either."
"I want us to stay honest," she continued. "Even when it's hard."
He smiled softly. "Especially then."
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. "I love you."
The words didn't shock him.
They felt earned.
"I love you too," he replied.
And this time, he didn't wonder whether he deserved to say it.
---
The night before Mira had to respond, they climbed the hill overlooking the city, bringing a blanket and two cups of lukewarm coffee. The lights below shimmered like possibilities.
"I think I'm going to say yes," Mira said quietly.
Elior felt the ache—but it didn't hollow him out.
"I think you should," he said.
She turned to him, searching. "Are you sure?"
"No," he admitted. "But I'm willing."
She smiled sadly. "That's enough."
They lay back on the blanket, shoulders touching.
"I used to think love meant holding on as tightly as possible," Elior said. "Now I think it means making space."
Mira laughed softly. "You've changed."
"So have you."
They fell quiet, watching the sky darken.
---
When Mira sent the acceptance email the next morning, Elior was beside her.
She hit send.
Nothing exploded.
The world didn't collapse.
Life simply… continued.
---
The weeks before her departure were tender and heavy.
They made memories on purpose—late-night walks, shared playlists, handwritten notes tucked into pockets. Elior learned to sit with the sadness without letting it define everything.
One afternoon, Mira handed him a small notebook.
"For when I'm gone," she said. "Write to me. Even if you don't send it."
He traced the cover with his thumb. "I will."
"And I'll write back," she added. "Every chance I get."
They hugged for a long time.
---
The day she left, the station buzzed with motion—announcements, footsteps, voices overlapping. Mira stood with her bag at her feet, eyes shining.
"I'm not leaving you," she said.
"I know," Elior replied. "You're just going ahead for a while."
She smiled, tears slipping free. "You're better at this than you think."
He cupped her face, pressing his forehead to hers. "I'll stay."
She kissed him—slow, deliberate, full of promise.
When she boarded, Elior didn't look away.
He watched until the doors closed, until the train disappeared.
Then he breathed.
---
That night, he opened the notebook.
Dear Mira, he wrote. I used to believe love was something I wasn't built for. But you taught me it's something I can grow into. I'll keep choosing us—even from here.
He closed the notebook and smiled.
The future no longer felt like a threat.
It felt like a shape he could step into—imperfect, uncertain, and finally, his.
---