The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 21
DARYA
Six weeks. It had been six long, strange, quiet weeks since Leila and Elias left Iran.
I talked to them almost every day — video chats, silly photos, quick voice notes when I was rushing between tasks at work. They looked so alive there in Istanbul. Free. Softened by happiness in a way that made my chest ache with both pride and longing.
But God, I missed them.
I missed Leila’s fire, Elias’s dry humor, the way the three of us fit together like some strange, mismatched family.
One night, after helping my mother settle into bed — she was having more trouble these days, her breathing slow and shallow — I sat alone in the living room, scrolling through Leila’s new photos. Her hair uncovered in public. Her bright clothes. Elias in the background of half her selfies, pretending not to pose.
And suddenly, the idea hit me.
A glorious, ridiculous, perfect Darya idea.
Why not visit them? And on top of that ... why not surprise them? Don’t tell them ahead of time. Don’t give them any warning at all.
Just knock on their door in Istanbul and watch them fall over themselves in shock.
I grinned into my hands. Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
I went to find my mother, who was dozing lightly. “Mama,” I whispered, “can I ask for your help with something?”
She opened one eye. “If it involves the police, the airport, or a boy, the answer is no.”
I snorted. “It’s the airport one.”
She sighed, sat up a little. “Tell me.”
“I want to visit Leila. Just for a week. She and her husband ... they’re starting a new life, and I want to see them. I miss them.”
Her face softened immediately — that instinctive love she always carried for me, always so different from the cold control Leila had endured in her home. “You should see your friend,” she said simply. “You’ve been lonely.”
I swallowed, surprised by how quickly tears stung behind my eyes. “Mama...”
She waved a hand. “Don’t cry. It will make me cry. And then we’ll both be useless.”
I laughed. It felt good.
She helped me get started that very night on the exit visa paperwork. It wasn’t easy — nothing in Iran ever was — but she marched me through it with the same stubborn determination she used when arguing with doctors about her medications. Within a week, my leave from work was approved, my exit visa stamped.
I told my mother everything except one tiny detail: That I’m planning to terrify my friends by appearing out of nowhere.
She would have judged me for it. Then encouraged me anyway.
Back in my room, I opened my laptop.
One-way flights, round-trip flights ... I scrolled until I found something affordable. A round-trip ticket, one week in Istanbul.
My heart thudded with excitement as I typed in my information.
This was happening. I was going to Istanbul. I was going to show up on their doorstep and watch their jaws hit the floor.
I hit “purchase,” leaned back in my chair, and grinned at the ceiling.
“Get ready, Leila,” I whispered. “Your trouble-making friend is on the way.”
The moment I stepped off the plane at Istanbul Airport, I felt my heart hammering in my chest.
Not from fear — no, fear and I had parted ways a long time ago — but from the sudden, dizzying realization that I was really here. Outside Iran. In a place I had only seen in movies and photographs. A place where nobody cared what I wore or whether my hair was covered.
And speaking of which...
The first thing I did after clearing passport control was find a quiet corner, tug off my scarf, and shove it deep into my shoulder bag where it would stay, at least for the rest of my stay in Turkey. My hair tumbled out — messy, voluminous, free — and for a split second, I was almost afraid someone would yell at me.
No one did. No one even looked twice.
I closed my eyes and took one long, shaky breath.
“Okay, Darya,” I whispered to myself. “Time to begin your adventure.”
Out in the arrivals hall, the noise hit me like a wave — languages I didn’t recognize, the smell of coffee and perfume, the blur of people moving in every direction. For a moment, I felt completely overwhelmed, like a little girl who had wandered somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.
But then I squared my shoulders.
I hadn’t fought through Shiraz traffic, corrupt bureaucracies, and my own loneliness just to freeze up in an airport.
Outside, sunlight hit my face as I pushed through the sliding doors. Everything looked sharper somehow — brighter, louder, alive.
I raised a hand to hail a taxi.
The driver hopped out and opened the door with a warm smile. “Where to?”
I gave him the address I’d pulled up on my phone ... and then stopped myself.
No. Not yet.
Leila and Elias weren’t getting the full surprise until I was ready.
“Actually,” I said, switching to English, “can you take me to a women’s clothing store? Something nice. Fashionable.”
He grinned. “Of course.”
I slid into the back seat, heart buzzing with excitement.
I wasn’t just surprising them by showing up in Istanbul. I was going to surprise them by showing up as the version of myself I had always pictured but could never be — not back home.
Something Western. Something bold. Something me.
I watched the city rush by outside the window — the minarets in the distance, the blue glimmer of the Bosphorus, the swirl of traffic and life. It felt unreal, like stepping into a dream.
Soon, I’d be knocking on their door. But first?
I was going shopping.
The women’s clothing store was much bigger than I imagined — elegant, bright, walls lined with displays that looked like they belonged in fashion magazines rather than real life. For a moment I just stood there, drinking it all in. No forced modesty. No suspicious saleswomen. No judgmental stares. Just clothes. Beautiful clothes.
At first, I gravitated toward the boldest pieces — the kind of things I used to daydream about but would never dare wear in Iran. A slinky red dress, a sparkly black top with a neckline that honestly scared even me, a pair of heels so high I’d probably need a support team just to walk three meters.
I held them up in front of the mirror and laughed.
“Okay, Darya, calm down,” I muttered.
This wasn’t me — not really. And besides, the whole point was to surprise Leila and Elias, not to show up looking like I’d just escaped from an underground nightclub. I wanted to look like myself, just ... the version of myself that had been waiting to exist.
With that in mind, I wandered through the racks again, slower this time, letting myself actually feel what I liked.
And then I found it.
A sleek, medium-length skirt in a soft navy fabric that swished just above my knees when I walked. Paired with it, a simple but elegant sleeveless top — fitted, flattering, just the right amount of “look at me” without shouting it. Low-cut enough to reveal just a hint of cleavage. And a pair of low open-toed heels that made me feel taller, more graceful, but didn’t threaten to break my ankles.
Perfect.
I tried them all on in the dressing room, and when I stepped out, one of the saleswomen clapped her hands and said, ”Çok güzel.” Very beautiful.
I felt myself blush — actually blush.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling like an idiot.
I bought everything and changed into my new outfit right away, stuffing my old clothes into the shopping bag as if I were shedding an entire version of my past. Maybe I was.
But I wasn’t finished.