The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 34
LEILA
The call came late in the evening—later than Darya usually called, even with the time difference. Elias and I had just finished cleaning up after dinner, and I was folding the dish towel when my phone buzzed on the counter.
Darya flashed across the screen.
I felt a small pinch of worry. She still wasn’t her usual self since her mother passed, and although we spoke daily, the spark in her voice had dimmed. Understandably. Grief had its own schedule.
I answered immediately. “Salam, azizam,” I said softly.
“Leila...” Her voice trembled just enough for me to catch it. But it wasn’t sadness—there was something charged underneath it. Something alive. “Can you talk?”
“Of course.” I sat at the kitchen table, and Elias quietly slipped into the seat beside me so he could listen. “What is it?”
There was a breath on the other end. A long one. Then—finally—the words came.
“I’m ready.”
The declaration landed with weight, like a stone dropped in water.
I straightened. “Ready for what?”
“To leave Iran,” she said, her voice suddenly clear despite the crack in it. “To leave for good.”
My hand flew to my mouth. Elias’s eyes widened next to me.
Darya continued, her words picking up momentum, like they’d been held back for weeks. “I know I couldn’t think about it right away. After my mother ... after everything ... I needed time. But before she died—” her voice broke, just for a moment, “—she told me something. She said, ‘Follow your dreams, even if you have to leave Iran.’”
I felt tears sting my eyes instantly.
“Oh, Darya...”
“It was the last real conversation we had,” she said. “And I’ve been holding on to it. Thinking about what she meant. And I know now—she wanted me to live. Really live.”
A small, shaky breath escaped her, but beneath it, I heard the unmistakable rise of determination.
“I want to come to Ireland,” she said. “If you two are going ... that’s where I want to be. I know it won’t be simple. I know it may take time. But I’m going to try. I have to try.”
Elias leaned closer to the phone, his voice steady and warm.
“Darya—you won’t do it alone. We’re with you. Every step of the way.”
“Yes,” I said quickly, my voice thick. “Whatever it takes ... whatever hoops you have to jump through ... we’ll help you with all of it. Paperwork, job applications, visas. Everything.”
There was the faintest sound from her—half laugh, half sob.
“I knew you would say that.”
“Of course,” I whispered. “You’re family.”
Darya didn’t speak for several seconds. I imagined her sitting on her bed in Shiraz, maybe with the window cracked open to the night air, a world that had always felt too small pressing in around her but now—maybe—showing a crack of possibility.
When she finally spoke again, her voice had steadied.
“I’m scared,” she admitted. “But I’m more scared of staying here forever. I want something different. And I think ... I think my mother really wanted for me to go.”
My throat tightened painfully.
“She did,” I said. “I’m certain of it.”
Another pause followed—this one softer. Then, she spoke in true Darya fashion.
“So,” she said, sniffing, “once you two move to Ireland, you better make sure there’s space for me. And good lighting, because I am not arriving somewhere gloomy.”
Elias laughed, relief passing through him like a wave.
“Well, Galway is gorgeous. But we’ll make sure the windows face west so you get dramatic evening light. Very cinematic.”
Darya made a choked laughing sound. “Perfect. I want to have my big European moment.”
I felt a warmth spread through me—not joy exactly, not while grief still hovered around her—but something close. Something hopeful. Hope rising out of tragedy. Hope reclaiming space where loss had lived.
“We’re with you, Darya,” I said again. “Always.”
“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I’m brave enough to try.”
And in the quiet that followed, I realized her mother had given her a final gift—permission. Freedom. A blessing wrapped in sorrow.
Now it was up to all three of us to see where that blessing would lead.
ELIAS
Our last days in Berlin felt strangely suspended—like time had loosened its grip just enough for everything to blur at the edges. We were still going to work, still running errands, still sleeping in our familiar apartment ... but every moment carried a quiet sense of this is the last time.
One of the first farewells was dinner with Hannah at her place.
She ushered us in with a flourish, her hair in a messy clip and the smell of roasted vegetables drifting from the kitchen. “Come in, come in—you two have one foot out the door, but I’m not letting you leave without one proper meal.”
Her apartment was warm and cluttered in the deliberate, artistic way that suited her—plants everywhere, a stack of books on every surface, mismatched candles burning even though it wasn’t dark yet. She’d clearly put effort into the dinner, though she pretended she hadn’t.
When we sat down, she raised her glass before we’d even taken a bite. “To Ireland,” she said, with a smile that looked both proud and a little sad. “And to you two not forgetting me once you’re living your romantic, windswept coastal life.”
Leila laughed. “We’re going to be in the rain half the time. Not sure how windswept we’ll look.”
“Oh no,” Hannah said dramatically, “rain makes everything look cinematic. Wet hair, mist, tragic lighting—very poetic.” She winked at me. “Just remember to send pictures so I can envy your suffering.”
The food was good—simple, comforting—rosemary potatoes, roasted carrots, a bright salad, and a loaf of bread still warm from her oven. Hannah talked about her own projects, her upcoming exhibition, the annoying new guy in her office. She didn’t ask too many questions about the move, which I appreciated. It let the evening feel normal.
But when dessert came—some chocolate tart she claimed she made “accidentally”—the mood shifted slightly, softened.
“I really am happy for you both,” she said, propping her chin in her hand. “You’re doing something brave. Something most people only talk about.”
Leila reached for her hand, and Hannah squeezed back.
“And if you ever want to come back,” Hannah added, “Berlin will still be here. And so will I. I expect guest appearances.”
“We’ll come visit,” I said. “Promise.”
She sighed dramatically. “Good. I can’t lose my favorite couple to the Atlantic forever.”
The three of us lingered after that, talking until the candles burned low. And when we finally stood to leave, she hugged us each twice—once casual, once fiercely.
“Go be brilliant,” she whispered as she let go.
A day later, I had my goodbye with Markus.
He insisted we meet at a quiet café near the office, one of those places that always smelled like toasted rye bread and strong coffee. He was already there when I arrived, typing something furious into his phone with the intensity of someone writing an email complaint he absolutely intended to send.
“Ah, future Irishman,” he said when he spotted me. “Sit, sit.”
I did, and he immediately slid a croissant toward me. “I got you one so you don’t cry mid-conversation.”
I snorted. “You’re very confident in your emotional impact.”
“Of course I am. I’m unforgettable.”
He wasn’t wrong.
We talked about normal things at first—work updates, bureaucratic gossip, which office printer was dying a slow death. But eventually he pulled back, folded his arms, and gave me a look that was much too earnest for Markus.
“You’re going to do great there,” he said quietly. “I know it. Ireland’s lucky you two picked it.”
My throat tightened in a way I didn’t expect. “Thanks,” I said. “Really.”
He made a vague circling motion with his hand, embarrassed by sincerity. “Yes, yes. Don’t start crying. I’m not equipped.”
Then the grin returned. “But remember—if you stop asking me immigration questions, I’ll assume you’ve forgotten me. In fact—” he pointed at me dramatically “—I expect at least one frantic text saying ‘Markus, I’ve ruined something in my residency paperwork, please fix me.’”
I laughed. “We’ll do our best to maintain your sense of purpose.”
“Good. Otherwise I’ll block your number out of neglect.”
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