The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 28
ELIAS
I hadn’t realized how restless I was until we reached the arrivals hall. Even with the heat lamps overhead and crowds all around us, the chill of early February in Istanbul crept straight through my coat. Leila kept rubbing her hands together, glancing every few seconds at the sliding doors that separated us from customs.
“She said she landed twenty minutes ago,” I reminded her, mostly to calm myself.
“Yes, yes,” she murmured, eyes locked on the doors. “But you know how airports are.”
I knew. I also knew we both felt the same mixture of excitement and nerves. Darya had managed to get only three days off work, and even that had required some contortions on her end. It hadn’t been difficult for us—European vacation policies still felt slightly unreal to me—but for her, this trip was something she had had to fight for. That made the moment feel even bigger.
A wave of passengers streamed out. Not her.
Another wave. Not her.
And then—suddenly, there she was.
Darya emerged from behind a cluster of tourists, scanning the crowd. Her headscarf was already gone, stuffed somewhere out of sight, her hair slightly mussed from travel. When she spotted us, her whole face transformed, bright and alive in a way I hadn’t realized I’d missed so much.
Leila gasped, and then the two of us practically ran.
Darya dropped her bag right on the floor and threw her arms around us. It was chaotic—Leila laughing through tears, Darya squeezing her as if she needed proof we were real, me trying not to crush either of them. People moved around us, annoyed or amused or indifferent, but none of that mattered. It felt like we were reclaiming a piece of our lives.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Leila kept saying, voice shaking.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Darya shot back. “You two look like you stepped out of some European postcard.”
She stepped back to peer at us more fully, brushing hair out of her face. “Okay, okay—give me five minutes. I need to become Istanbul-appropriate Darya.”
With the practiced quickness of someone who had done this dance too many times, she grabbed her travel bag and hurried toward the restroom.
Leila exhaled. “I think she was holding her breath the whole flight.”
“Probably.”
A few minutes later, the door opened again—and out walked a completely different version of Darya. She wore the outfit she’d bought during our last trip: fitted jeans, a soft sweater, and a long coat that suited her perfectly. Her hair was down, styled just enough to look effortless, and she held her head high in that way she only allowed herself outside Iran.
People noticed her. How could they not?
I smiled, shaking my head. “Look out, Istanbul—Darya’s back.”
She grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Damn right I am.”
LEILA
The taxi ride to the hotel felt like slipping into an old memory—familiar streets, the uneven hum of Istanbul traffic, Darya chattering nonstop as if trying to make up for the months we’d been apart. When we reached the small hotel, the receptionist greeted us politely, handed over the keys, and Darya marched straight to her room to drop off her bags.
Elias stretched as he unlocked our door. “I think I’ll take a nap,” he announced, a touch too casually.
I gave him a look. “A nap. Really.”
“Yes. A nap.” He kissed the top of my head. “You two need girl time. Go. Have fun. I’ll be here ... sleeping.”
Darya, returning at just that moment, snorted. “He’s scared of us.”
He didn’t deny it—just smiled faintly and shut the door behind him.
So off we went.
The moment we stepped into our old favorite hair salon, the stylist—Aylin—looked up from her client and broke into a smile.
“You’re back!” she exclaimed, switching to English automatically. “Welcome, welcome!”
I surprised her. “Geri döndük, Aylin Hanım. Sizi görmek çok güzel.”
Her eyes widened. “You learned Turkish!”
Darya blinked at me. “Okay, what was that? When did this happen?”
I felt a tiny spark of pride. “During the last few months. Practice, study, grocery-store conversations...”
Aylin laughed in delight, ushering us into her chairs. “Your accent is very good. Not perfect—but very good!”
Darya leaned forward. “Teach me something. Something easy.”
“Yes!” Aylin clapped her hands. “Start with ‘thank you.’ Teşekkür ederim.”
Darya repeated it, stumbling adorably over the rhythm.
Aylin corrected her gently. Darya tried again.
I nudged her shoulder. “Look at you. Maybe by next trip you’ll be fluent.”
“Ha!” she said. “I’ll be doing well if I can order tea without embarrassing myself.”
After a quick trim for both of us and a bit of styling, we headed back out into the chilly Istanbul afternoon. The wind off the Bosphorus had a bite, but the energy of the city warmed everything.
Our next stop was a nearby clothing boutique—bright lights, elegant displays, and the kind of atmosphere that made Darya’s eyes sparkle.
“We need outfits for tonight,” she declared, already rifling through a rack of blouses. “Fancy ones.”
“Not too fancy,” I warned. “Elias will think we’re trying to bankrupt him.”
“That’s his problem,” she replied airily.
I couldn’t help laughing.
We each found a few pieces to try on. I went for something simple but elegant—a soft, dark-green dress that made me feel like a slightly upgraded version of myself. Darya emerged from the fitting room in a flowing, deep-blue outfit that looked as if Istanbul had designed it just for her.
“Oh,” I breathed. “That’s perfect.”
She twirled. “I know, right?”
We paid for our finds, still buzzing with excitement for the evening.
“Dinner is going to be amazing,” Darya said, looping her arm through mine as we stepped back onto the street.
“Yes,” I said, feeling the moment settle warmly into my chest. “It already is.”
DARYA
Talk about high-class.
The restaurant Elias picked was the kind of place I used to only see in photos—soft lighting, candles on every table, waiters gliding around like they were trained in some secret restaurant academy. Definitely nicer than anything I’d ever stepped into in Shiraz. And the second I saw the prices on the menu, I leaned over toward Elias.
“You sure you can afford to feed us here, teacher man?” I whispered.
He rolled his eyes. “We’re celebrating. It’s a special occasion.”
Leila giggled. “He’s so proud of this choice. Let him enjoy it.”
I smirked. “Oh, he’ll enjoy it. Especially when the bill arrives and he faints into his soup.”
The teasing kept flowing—easy, warm, effortless. It felt like no time had passed at all since we’d last met. But eventually, between starters and main dishes, the conversation shifted. I didn’t mean to bring it down; it just slipped out.
“So ... the letter,” I said softly.
Leila’s expression tightened, just a little. I saw Elias reach under the table and squeeze her hand.
“I got it,” I continued. “It took a long time, but I got it just three days ago.”
Leila nodded.
“And yes,” I added with a grin, “I did a ridiculous middle-of-the-night mission. Hoodie, scarf, all black like some strange Iranian ninja. Your parents’ street was so quiet I swear I could hear my own guilt echoing.”
Leila let out a small, nervous laugh.
“I waited until the whole neighborhood seemed asleep. Then I just ... walked up and dropped it in the mailbox.” I shrugged. “Easy.”
“And nothing happened?” Elias asked.
“No one saw me,” I said gently, turning to Leila. “Way too soon to think about a response. And honestly ... you might never get one.”
She nodded again, more firmly this time. “I know.”
I hesitated, then took a sip of my water.
“There’s something else,” I said. “I did a little digging.”
Leila’s head snapped up. “About what?”
“Omid.”
Elias instantly stiffened. I raised a hand. “It’s not bad news. Well ... it depends on how you look at it. He’s in prison.”
Leila blinked at me, clearly taken aback. “Prison? For what?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know yet. Could be anything—fighting, threatening someone, breaking something. Or something worse. The only thing I could confirm was that he’s not getting out soon.”
Elias exhaled slowly. Leila lowered her eyes, processing.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I know it’s a heavy topic, but I thought you should know. Maybe it puts one worry to rest.”
“It does,” Leila murmured. “Thank you.”
I reached across the table and took her hand.
“But wait—there’s more gloom and doom I need to drop on you.”
Elias winced. “Darya, please don’t.”
“My mother,” I said, ignoring him. “Her health is ... not great. Stable, but declining. Slowly.” I forced a small smile. “Nothing dramatic. Just reality.”
Leila’s eyes softened, and she squeezed my fingers. Elias nodded sympathetically.
“Enough of that,” I said quickly, straightening up. “I refuse to cry in this fancy place. My mascara costs too much to waste.”
Elias laughed, relief washing over his face. “There she is.”
I grinned wide. “Now, can we go back to pretending we’re rich Europeans who do this every weekend? Because I fully intend to order dessert.”
Leila laughed, all the heaviness melting away. “Order two.”
And just like that, the fun snapped back into place—shining through the shadows, the way it always did when the three of us were together.
ELIAS
The next morning, the three of us met in the hotel lobby looking far more awake than we had any right to be. Istanbul in February had teeth—sharp, icy ones—and when we stepped outside, the wind sliced straight through my jacket. Darya, of course, acted like it was nothing.
“This is refreshing,” she declared, lifting her face to the freezing air.
Leila wrapped her scarf tighter. “You’re insane.”
“Correct,” Darya said proudly. “Now let’s go somewhere warm.”
So we did.
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