The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 20
ELIAS
I’d always imagined that my wedding day would feel surreal. I just hadn’t expected this kind of surreal — a civil registry office tucked inside a busy Istanbul side street, the sound of scooters buzzing past the windows, and a cluster of couples from half a dozen countries quietly waiting for their turn to begin the rest of their lives.
The marriage office for foreigners was smaller than I expected. Bright, clean, a little bureaucratic, but the staff were kind and efficient, used to dealing with people like us — people who came with folders of documents and eyes full of hope. Leila held her purse tightly against her side, but she wasn’t nervous. If anything, I was the one whose heart thudded too fast.
When they finally called our names — my name first, then hers — she slipped her hand into mine, warm and confident. I glanced at her, and the look she gave me was steady, calm, almost ... triumphant.
The ceremony itself was simple. A few pages, a few signatures, a few formal questions. When the official asked us to stand, I could barely hear anything over the rushing in my ears. Leila looked radiant, even in her modest new dress — something soft and light that she’d chosen because it made her feel like herself. Her hair was pulled back neatly. Her smile never wavered.
When I said “yes,” it felt like stepping into sunlight.
When she said “yes,” she squeezed my fingers, as if claiming the moment with her whole being.
They handed us our marriage certificate — just paper, really — but it felt heavier than anything I’d ever held. The official congratulated us warmly, and suddenly the whole room erupted in applause from strangers who happened to be waiting their turn. It was small, and unexpected, and it meant everything.
Outside, the late morning sun washed the street in gold. Leila laughed — that bright, delighted laugh that still somehow startled me every time — and pulled out her phone. Within seconds, Darya appeared on the screen, beaming from her living room in Shiraz.
“I can’t believe you’re married!” she shouted through the tiny speaker. “Elias, take care of her. And Leila, make sure he listens to you.”
“We already know how this works,” I said, grinning.
Leila held the phone so Darya could see the certificate. “We did it,” she told her, her voice softening. “We made it.”
And in that moment, it struck me — this was the culmination of everything that had started on that dark, desperate night in Shiraz. All the fear, the running, the narrow escapes. It ended here, on a bright Istanbul sidewalk, with a future opening at our feet.
We didn’t have family in Istanbul, but fate had delivered us something close. A friendly Turkish couple — Ayla and Kemal — whom we’d met just the day before. They were a few years older, warm, effortlessly welcoming, and when they learned we were getting married, they insisted we come to their apartment afterward for a small celebration.
Their flat smelled of fresh bread and roasted peppers. Ayla hugged Leila as if she’d known her for years. Kemal shook my hand and clapped me on the back, then poured us all glasses of pomegranate juice, raising his own in a toast.
“To new beginnings,” he said. “And to bravery.”
The afternoon was simple but perfect. A homemade meal. A little music from a portable speaker. Darya was still on video for half of it, laughing and chatting as if she were in the room. Leila kept reaching for my hand under the table, as if she needed the reassurance that this was real — or maybe she was reassuring me.
At one point, Ayla asked Leila how she felt, truly felt, now that everything had changed.
Leila looked at me, her eyes shining, and said, “I’m fortunate. I married the man I chose ... not the one chosen for me.” She leaned her head against my shoulder. “That is a gift I will never take for granted.”
I swallowed hard. I couldn’t speak for a moment.
We stayed with Ayla and Kemal until early evening, sharing stories, laughing more than I thought possible after the months we’d lived through. Before we left, Leila told them they were the first friends we’d made in our new life. Ayla hugged her again, fiercely.
Walking back to our hotel through the warm evening air, with the city glowing around us, the world felt wide and promising.
“This feels like the start,” Leila said quietly, threading her fingers through mine.
“It is,” I told her. “It really is.”
We agreed to postpone the honeymoon until we were in Germany — until we were settled, secure, and able to enjoy it without worry. And strangely, that made me even happier. It was a future promise, not rushed, not desperate — something bright waiting for us just over the horizon.
That night, in our tiny hotel room, Leila fell asleep with her head on my chest, one hand resting over our marriage certificate. And for the first time in a long time, with my love snuggled up against me, I slept easily.
Our ordeal had brought us here.
Our journey — our real life — had just begun.
LEILA
I woke the next morning still half-convinced the wedding had been a dream. For so long, marriage had been something terrifying — something that could be forced on me, something decided behind closed doors by people who cared more about appearances than happiness. I used to imagine myself trapped with a man chosen for me, living a life I didn’t want, my real self buried under duties and expectations.
But then Elias appeared in my life — as unexpected as a sudden breeze in a sealed room — and changed everything. Not by rescuing me, but by seeing me. By respecting me. By believing that I had the right to choose my future, my work, my voice, my love. Marrying him felt like reclaiming something I’d almost lost: my freedom, my dignity, my life.
So, when I woke up and saw him beside me, hair messy, breathing softly, the marriage certificate on the nightstand, I felt an overwhelming warmth wash through me.
I had done this. We had done this.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
We headed to the German embassy late that morning, armed with our documents and our courage. Bureaucracy didn’t intimidate me anymore — not after everything we’d survived. The consular staff were polite, efficient, a little stern, but nothing like the oppressive offices back home. I handed over the affidavit Darya’s aunt had given me, the one she’d pressed into my hands “just in case.” I could almost hear Darya’s voice teasing me that she’d always known I’d need it.
The visa process would take weeks, maybe a few months, but it didn’t matter. For once, time felt like something on our side.
When we stepped back onto the street, Elias stretched his arms as if shaking off the formal atmosphere.
“Since we survived that,” he said, “I think we deserve something nice today.”
I grinned. “What did you have in mind?”
Twenty minutes later, we were in a yellow taxi weaving through Istanbul’s chaotic traffic. I pressed my forehead to the window, taking it all in — the domes, the minarets, the crowded markets, the sudden glimpses of deep blue water between buildings. I’d never been outside Iran before. Every detail felt like a revelation.
We were dropped off near the Bosphorus, and when I stepped out and saw the water shimmering in the sunlight, my breath caught. The strait stretched endlessly, dotted with boats, framed by hills and old stone buildings and that gentle wind that tasted faintly of salt.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered. “Elias ... it’s so beautiful.”
He smiled, slipping his hand into mine. “Welcome to the world, my love.”
We walked along the shoreline, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, sometimes just stopping so I could stare like a child seeing snow for the first time. I felt something spark inside me — the same thing I’d felt when we were planning our escape, when I first imagined what life could be beyond Iran’s borders.
The travel bug. The hunger to see everything, to learn everything, to expand until the world felt like home.
“Where should we go one day?” Elias asked, squeezing my hand.
“Everywhere,” I said immediately. Then I laughed. “But maybe start with somewhere warm. A beach. Or one of those islands you told me about.”
“Greece,” he said. “Or Croatia. Or the Amalfi Coast.”
My heart fluttered. “All of them.”
The sun dipped lower, turning the water gold. For a moment, I imagined us years from now, exploring cities I’d only ever seen in movies, speaking languages I hadn’t even begun to learn, collecting memories the way other people collected souvenirs.
I leaned my head against Elias’s shoulder and said, “I want to fill my life with places and stories. With you.”
He kissed the top of my head. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
And standing there beside the Bosphorus — the first foreign shoreline I’d ever touched — I felt it clearly: my life had opened wide, and I intended to step fully into it.
By the time we made it back to our side of the city, it was late afternoon and the air had cooled just enough to be pleasant. My legs were tired from all the walking, but in the happiest way — the way that made me feel alive, as if my body was finally catching up to my new life.
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