Chapter 19

ELIAS

The next day, Istanbul felt like the beginning of a blank page. No headlines, no pressure—just white space waiting to be filled.

We were holed up in a modest little hotel, the kind of place with peeling wallpaper and creaky doors, but we didn’t care. We had agreed—no job hunting, no immigration appointments, no logistics until at least the weekend. For once, we’d let the world wait. We’d earned that.

Our savings would stretch far enough for now, especially with both of us free to work soon. But we didn’t talk much about that. We just existed next to each other, grateful, exhausted, a little stunned that we’d made it.

That afternoon, we found a small park a few blocks from the hotel—sun-dappled and quiet, just locals walking dogs and sipping tea. We sat close together on a wooden bench, knees touching. A breeze stirred her hair, and I watched the way it caught the light, still not over the sight of it.

“I wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye to Darya,” I said, watching a pair of sparrows flit past. “She did so much ... and I didn’t even get to thank her in person.”

Leila nodded, her fingers tightening around mine. “She knows. And she’d just tell you to take a million pictures and send them all.”

We both smiled at that. A moment passed, and then I said, more quietly, “Do you think Omid will actually try something?”

Her smile faded, but her expression stayed calm. “Maybe,” she said. “He’s ... unhinged. I mean, the airport? That was insane. But honestly, he’s lost the battle. I don’t think he’ll be able to let it go, but there’s not much he can do from there. And I’m not scared of him anymore.”

I believed her. She had a steel spine, this woman. I’d seen it in pieces before, but now—free of the veil, free of the fear—I was seeing it in full. She had run toward this life. Toward us.

A comfortable quiet settled over us. We didn’t need to fill every silence.

But I felt something welling up in me—something that had been building ever since I saw her walk through those airport doors the night before.

I shifted on the bench and turned toward her.

“Leila,” I said.

She turned, curious. “Hmm?”

“I know this probably isn’t the most romantic place or time. We’re sitting on a splintery bench next to a trash can, and we’re both running on three hours of sleep. But I need to say this now, because waiting would feel like lying.”

Her expression changed, slowly, her body still.

“When you meet the right person,” I said, “you just know. And I knew, back in Shiraz—long before I ever admitted it to myself. You are the one. I want this—you, us—for the rest of my life.”

I reached into my pocket. No ring, not yet. Just words.

“Will you marry me?”

Her breath caught, audible in the space between us. For a split second, she looked stunned—but only a split second. Then came the joy. Radiant, unstoppable.

“Yes,” she whispered, then louder, laughing through it. “Yes!”

She flung her arms around me, nearly knocking us both off the bench. We kissed, and some older woman walking by started clapping. A few people smiled at us, offered their congratulations in Turkish or broken English. I didn’t understand most of the words, but I understood the sentiment.