The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 32
LEILA
I waited until my lunch break to make the second call. I’d spent the whole morning rehearsing what I needed to say—phrases Markus had armed Elias with, which Elias passed on to me over breakfast as though he were reading sacred instructions.
“Highly specialized linguistic asset,” I murmured to myself. “Value they cannot easily find domestically.”
It felt strange, almost arrogant, but I reminded myself it wasn’t bragging if it was true.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk and dialed the number from Michael O’Shea’s email. My hands trembled a little, and for a ridiculous moment I wondered if he’d even remember me. But he picked up on the second ring.
“Michael O’Shea speaking.”
“Hello, Mr. O’Shea. This is Leila—Leila Nouri, from Berlin. We spoke yesterday.”
“Well now!” he said, cheerful as if we were old friends. “I’m glad to hear from you again. Did you have time to think about the position?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I did. I’m very interested. But I need to explain something important before we go further.”
“Go right ahead,” he said warmly.
I took a breath. “I would need sponsorship to work in Ireland. I’m a resident of Germany, but I’m originally from Iran, and I don’t have EU citizenship. To take the job, I’d need a work permit—specifically the Critical Skills Employment Permit.”
There was a small pause. I braced myself.
But Michael didn’t sound surprised, or hesitant, or anything resembling the “no Leila, that’s too complicated” I had feared.
“Ah, yes, of course,” he said easily. “Professional sponsorship. Not an issue. We handle that sort of paperwork for international hires fairly often. You’d be surprised how many people in this field end up in Ireland from all corners of the world.”
I blinked. “ ... Really?”
“Oh yes,” he chuckled. “Believe me, we’re used to this. Languages cross borders, so language professionals do, too. If the Critical Skills permit is the correct route—and it sounds like it is—we’ll back you all the way. Your language combination is rare. That’s exactly what these permits are designed to support.”
Hearing Markus’s phrasing echoed—rare combination—sent a warmth through me.
“I’m very relieved to hear that,” I said. “I didn’t want to impose a burden.”
“Not a burden at all. A process. We submit the application, prepare documentation, justify the role. The Department of Enterprise usually responds within a reasonable timeline. Sometimes fast. Sometimes not so fast.” He laughed lightly. “It’s bureaucracy; there’s no predicting its moods.”
I smiled despite myself. “I understand.”
He shifted into a more formal tone. “We’ll need to draft an employment contract for you once we officially offer you the position. Then we build the permit application around that. You’ll provide a few documents on your side—passport scans, qualifications, references. Nothing too frightening.”
“And ... how long does approval usually take?”
“It varies. Could be a few weeks. Could be longer. But don’t worry—we’ll keep it moving.”
A nervous flutter stirred in my stomach. Weeks—or longer. That was the part I dreaded. The waiting. The uncertainty. My mind immediately leapt to the worst-case scenario: what if they said no?
As if sensing the shift in my silence, he added gently, “I wouldn’t pursue sponsorship unless I felt confident about it. We don’t string people along, Leila.”
That helped. More than I expected.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “And I should mention—I won’t leave my current job until everything is approved.”
“Exactly as you should do,” he said. “We wouldn’t want you to. Keep your position in Berlin until you have the permit in hand.”
The line was silent for a moment, warm rather than tense.
“Are you still interested?” he asked finally. “Because we certainly are.”
“Yes,” I said, without hesitation now. “I’m very interested.”
He exhaled, as though pleased. “Wonderful. Then here’s what we’ll do: I’ll email you a list of the documents we’ll need. Once you send them over, we’ll formalize the offer and get the sponsorship process underway.”
“Thank you,” I said again, because it was all I could think to say.
“No need to thank me. You impressed us months ago; this is just the natural next step.” Then, after a pause, his tone grew a touch softer. “And for what it’s worth, Leila, I think you’ll thrive here.”
When we ended the call, I sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, phone in my lap, heart racing—not with fear this time, but with something electric and impossible to name.
Hope, maybe. And terror. But most of all, exhilaration.
The days after my second call with Michael O’Shea settled into a strange mixture of normalcy and quiet tension, like living inside a paused moment. Autumn had begun to settle over Berlin—as if the city itself was exhaling after summer, letting the air turn crisp and smoky with the scent of fallen leaves.
I walked to the train station most mornings, even when I didn’t need to. The cool air helped steady my nerves. I told myself that if I kept busy, I wouldn’t obsess over the work permit, but my brain had other plans. Every morning, my first instinct was to check my inbox for an update from O’Shea Languages. And every morning it was the same—nothing yet.
At the office, Dr. Keller kept me busy with a steady stream of translation and editing tasks. She had grown even more comfortable assigning me complicated material—technical pieces, legal correspondence, diplomatic memos. I liked that she trusted me. I liked that this version of my life—living in Germany, speaking four languages every day, walking into an office where I was valued—had once seemed impossible.
And yet I found myself moving through it like someone waiting for a bell to ring.
One afternoon, as I sat at my desk typing a particularly messy Turkish-to-German document, Dr. Keller paused beside me.
“Leila? You’re very quiet today.”
I gave her a small smile. “Just concentrating.”
She studied me for a moment with the sharpness that made her such a good linguist—and a terrifyingly perceptive mentor. “Concentrating ... and waiting?”
I froze. “Waiting for what?”
She shrugged lightly. “Emails, perhaps?”
I wondered how she knew. Then I remembered: she always knew everything. “Maybe,” I admitted.
She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Whatever you are waiting for, you are still doing excellent work. Don’t let uncertainty steal the joy of what you’re accomplishing right now.”
Her words made more of an impression than she probably intended. I nodded, and she moved on.
In the evenings, Elias and I fell into a cozy routine—warm meals, quiet conversation, long walks under the streetlights. He tried to reassure me without being too obvious about it.
“It’ll happen,” he’d say as we washed the dishes side by side. “They want you badly. Ireland isn’t going to pass on someone like you.”
“I know,” I’d reply, though in truth I didn’t know anything.
Sometimes we talked about Ireland—what life there might look like. Sometimes we deliberately avoided the topic, afraid to jinx it. The funny thing was, even the uncertainty brought us closer. It’s strange how waiting can do that—bind two people together, side by side, staring toward the same unknown.
The weeks passed. Berlin grew colder. The leaves turned darker shades of red and orange. Every day, I went into work and pretended nothing monumental might be quietly deciding my future somewhere in an Irish government office.
I focused on my tasks. I studied French during my lunch breaks. I stopped by the Turkish grocery and practiced new words with the owner, who always teased me for learning vocabulary faster than she could remember it. I tried to let life be normal.
But some nights, lying in bed beside Elias, I felt the weight of the silence from Ireland like a stone in my chest.
“What if it doesn’t go through?” I whispered once, hardly audible.
Elias slid an arm around me and pulled me close. “Then we’ll make a new plan,” he whispered back. “But for now? Let’s trust the one already in motion.”
So, I kept working. I kept waiting. And I kept imagining Ireland—not as a dream anymore, but as something real enough to touch ... if the right email ever arrived.
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