The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 24
LEILA
The moment the wheels touched the runway at Berlin Brandenburg, my heart lurched in a way I didn’t expect. It wasn’t fear, not exactly—more like a sudden awareness that everything we’d been pushing toward for months was no longer a mere possibility. It was here. Germany wasn’t an idea anymore. It was beneath my feet.
The air outside the jet bridge hit me first—cooler, sharper than Istanbul, even though it was early autumn. Elias looked over at me as we walked, trying to hide his grin, but the corners of his mouth kept twitching. I didn’t even try to hide mine.
We collected our luggage, followed the signs, and found the rental desk. The clerk switched to English the second he heard Elias speak, but a spark of pride warmed my chest when I realized I could understand nearly everything the man said in German. I understood even more when he spoke slowly. Elias teased me about it as we walked to the car, dragging suitcases that suddenly felt lighter.
The car was a small silver hatchback—clean, efficient, nothing fancy. Perfect for the two of us. As soon as Elias started the engine, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours. He reached over, squeezed my hand, and whispered, “We’re here.”
The drive into the city felt surreal. Berlin looked nothing like Istanbul and nothing like Shiraz. Wide roads, endless bike lanes, trams sliding past like ghosts. Gray buildings, colorful buildings, modern glass, and old brick—all mixed together as if the city had stopped trying to choose a personality and just embraced everything at once.
It goes without saying that I’d never seen anything like it.
Our Airbnb was a flat in an apartment building, in a quiet neighborhood outside the center: four floors, pale yellow façade, a tidy courtyard with bikes locked in neat rows. The host wasn’t home, but she’d left a lockbox, and a detailed message full of smiley faces. Inside, the apartment was small but bright—white walls, pine floors, a neatly folded blanket draped over the couch as if the place had been waiting for us.
I dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, still clutching my passport. “Do you realize,” I said, “this is our first night living in Europe?”
Elias flopped down beside me and sighed dramatically. “And we haven’t even bought bread yet.”
We laughed too hard for how tired we were.
The following days were nothing but paperwork, schedules, and long walks between gray official buildings. None of it was glamorous. In fact, most of it was exhausting. But every signature felt like a stone placed firmly in the foundation of our new life.
We registered our temporary address with the Bürgeramt, waiting two hours for a ten-minute appointment. The clerk was stern until she saw how neatly I had organized our documents; then she softened slightly, even complimented my German. Elias groaned afterward and said I was going to leave him behind linguistically within a month.
We signed up for health insurance the next morning—another office, another set of forms. The woman behind the counter had a warm smile but spoke so quickly that even I had trouble keeping up. Elias nudged me each time the conversation moved too fast, whispering, “Translate, translate,” under his breath. I hid a laugh and did my best.
Opening bank accounts took nearly an entire afternoon. I couldn’t believe how many papers we had to sign, or how serious the banker looked while explaining things in slow, careful German I only half-understood. Elias nodded along with the confident expression of a man understanding ten percent of what he was hearing. When we left, he whispered, “That man definitely thinks I’m fluent.”
By the end of the third day, my brain felt like a bookshelf someone had rearranged repeatedly.
But there was a calmness to it all. A sense of order. A sense that, unlike so many moments of the past year, we weren’t racing against danger or time. We were just ... building something. Quietly. Legally. Safely.
On the walk back to the Airbnb that evening, I threaded my arm through Elias’s and leaned against him.
“We’re really doing this,” I said.
He kissed the top of my head. “Yes,” he whispered. “And we’re only getting started.”
By the end of our first week in Germany, we had seen enough of our temporary Airbnb to know we didn’t want to live out of suitcases much longer. Unsurprisingly, we’d modified the list of towns we’d created in Istanbul, several times already. Our latest list had three towns on the outskirts of Berlin—places close enough for Elias to commute, assuming he found work in the city, but far enough to feel like our own little world.
We set out early one morning, a thermos of tea tucked into my bag, a list of addresses saved on Elias’s phone. The first town was fine—clean, organized, with wide sidewalks and tidy apartment blocks. But it felt a bit too modern, too glass-and-steel. I found myself whispering “maybe” in a voice that already meant “no.”
The second place was prettier, with older homes and a charming pedestrian street full of bakeries and bookshops. But something felt off—too busy, too crowded, almost like a smaller echo of the city we were trying to escape. Elias liked it more than I did, but after half an hour he admitted, “I think it’s trying a little too hard to impress us.”
The third town, though—that was different the moment we arrived. Tree-lined streets. Houses with flower boxes. Quiet roads with children on bicycles and older couples strolling hand-in-hand. It was green, cozy, and felt surprisingly familiar, even though I had never seen anything like it before. A place that didn’t overwhelm the senses. A place where the noise inside my mind suddenly softened.
“This is it,” I whispered as we parked. Elias took one slow look around, then nodded.
We viewed three flats there, but the second one stole my heart before we even stepped inside. A modest building, pale cream with dark green shutters. The flat itself wasn’t large—just a living room, a small bedroom, a narrow but bright kitchen. But everything felt warm. Real hardwood floors, a built-in bookshelf that looked like it had stories of its own, and best of all: a tiny balcony, just big enough for two chairs and a small table.
I stepped out onto it immediately. The view wasn’t dramatic—just the tops of leafy trees and the orange roof tiles of nearby buildings—but it felt peaceful in a way I hadn’t felt since Istanbul, maybe even longer.
Elias appeared behind me, slipped his arm around my waist, and murmured, “I can see us here.”
So could I.
We signed the papers two days later. Handed over our deposit. Received the keys in a small envelope I kept touching repeatedly, as if it might disappear.
Moving in didn’t take long—we didn’t own much yet. A few clothes. Two suitcases. Practical items we’d already bought. A small shipment of items and goods we’d sent from Istanbul arrived. The flat felt empty but full of promise, like a blank notebook waiting for the first words.
While wandering the neighborhood later that afternoon, trying to memorize the turns back to our new home, I spotted a small Middle Eastern grocery tucked between a florist and a bicycle repair shop. My heart jumped. The sign was in German, but the window display had familiar brands, familiar colors.
Inside, the smell hit me first—spices, dried limes, rosewater, shelves of teas and lentils and sweets. I found myself smiling so wide that the woman behind the counter smiled back instantly.
When I saw my tea—my favorite blend from Iran, the exact brand my mother used to buy—I felt an unexpected sting behind my eyes. I bought two boxes. Maybe more than two.
“It’s like fate,” I said later as Elias unlocked the door to our flat.
“It’s tea, love,” he teased. “But yes, I agree—fate.”
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