The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 37
LEILA
I didn’t realize how quickly a place could become part of me until we moved to Galway.
Every morning—before work, before the first email, before my brain had any chance to complicate itself—I slipped on my jacket, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and stepped outside into the soft Atlantic air. Sometimes Elias came with me; other times he slept in, exhausted from lesson planning or simply enjoying the rare pleasure of unhurried mornings. But whether I walked alone or with his hand in mine, the bay always felt like a friend waiting for me.
The weather shifted constantly, almost playfully. Some days the sky was low and foggy, the clouds sitting so close to the water they looked like they were trying to rest their elbows on it. Other days, the sun broke through the grey and spilled across the shoreline with a brightness that felt like a reward for endurance. And the wind—well, the wind had its own personality. Sometimes gentle, sometimes mischievous, sometimes so strong I had to hold my hood in both hands to keep it from flying back.
But I loved it. All of it.
I’d been happy during our stay in Berlin. It had been sharp angles and pressure and noise—too many people moving too fast in too little space. Here, the city breathed. The streets felt human-sized, the pace slower, more like a conversation than a command. Even the gulls seemed relaxed compared to their Berlin cousins.
As I walked, I listened to the waves breaking softly against the rocks, the distant laughter of morning runners, the occasional bark of a dog pulling cheerfully on its leash. Sometimes I walked all the way to Salthill, letting the water guide me. Sometimes I sat on a bench and watched the tide slide in and out like it was thinking out loud.
Elias teased me that I was going to become one of those “sea-swimmer people” who dunk themselves into freezing water for fun. I told him never—under no circumstances—would that happen. But the truth is, give me a few more months and who knows. Galway had already surprised me by how much I adored it.
And every walk made me think of Darya.
Because everything about this place felt like something she would love: the coolness, the quiet beauty, the way people smiled at strangers, the unpretentiousness of the city. She would fit here. She would breathe here. And every day, as I walked beside the water, I whispered that hope to the wind—as if it could carry the message across continents.
Some mornings I checked my phone constantly, waiting for a message from her. She always responded eventually—short updates, jokes, voice notes where her voice sounded both tired and determined. She was working so hard in Istanbul, trying to build a new life from nothing but courage.
And I felt her absence beside me like a physical thing. She should have been here. Walking with me. Rolling her eyes when the gulls screamed. Mocking the tourists who underestimated the wind. Linking arms with me. Laughing, complaining, dreaming.
But one day she would be.
I held onto that. Every step along the bay reaffirmed it.
Galway felt like the first place in my life where the future didn’t feel abstract—it felt like something forming in real time, shaping itself around Elias and me, waiting patiently for Darya to join us.
And when she did ... I knew everything would finally feel whole.
ELIAS
I didn’t know the Irish sense of humor was an ecosystem all its own until I found myself surrounded by it. It wasn’t just jokes—it was timing, tone, a kind of musical rhythm that could turn even a complaint into something hilarious. And unlike German humor, which often announced itself politely before arriving, Irish humor sneaked in sideways, caught you off guard, and left you laughing before you had time to decide whether you were supposed to.
Leila and I had made it our unofficial mission to try as many pubs as possible. Galway made that easy—there were so many places that looked as if they’d existed for centuries, tucked into narrow lanes, their doorways glowing with warm light and music. Still, it took a few tries before we found our place.
It was a small, amber-lit pub just off a side street near the Latin Quarter, with a wooden sign swinging overhead: The Silver Rose. Inside, it always smelled faintly of peat smoke and something sweet—maybe cider, maybe the candles that flickered on every table. Locals squeezed into mismatched chairs, swapping stories with complete strangers as if they were longtime friends. A fireplace crackled in the corner, the stone hearth worn down by decades of elbows resting on it.
The first night we stepped inside, the bartender looked up, smiled, and said, “Ah, new faces—don’t worry, we only bite if asked politely.”
Leila laughed so hard she snorted. The bartender winked as if that were the expected reaction.
That was Galway. People were warm, but not in the overly energetic way that sometimes made me uncomfortable—here, warmth came with a layer of wit, as if friendliness was best expressed through humor. I found it immediately comforting.
And then there was Lucas Brogan.
We met on our third or fourth visit. He was telling a story—loudly, dramatically, arms flying—about a cousin who had managed to set a microwave on fire by trying to dry socks in it.
He ended the story with, “And what does he say afterward? ‘I didn’t think they’d get that hot.’ Jaysus. No brain cells left, only steam.”
The table erupted in laughter, and even I couldn’t help it.
Lucas noticed, pointed at me, and said, “You! German lad! You laughed. That’s legally binding friendship here.”
I tried to explain I was half German, but that didn’t matter to him.
He introduced himself, shook my hand hard enough to jostle my drink, and then asked my name. When I said “Elias,” he scrunched his face up thoughtfully for half a second and declared:
“Right. I’ll call ya ‘Berlin.’”
I blinked. “But I’m not from—”
“No, no, ‘Berlin’ fits you,” he said, tapping his temple like the decision had been carefully calculated. “Tall, serious look about ya. Like a man who alphabetizes his sock drawer.”
Leila clapped her hands and almost fell off her chair laughing.
I felt a spark of offense at first, but Lucas had this incredible ability to deliver teasing with such warmth that it felt like he was including you, not picking on you. I couldn’t stay annoyed. And eventually, I had to admit ... it was kind of funny.
Besides, at some point later, when Lucas clapped me on the back and shouted across the bar—”Oi! Berlin! Come tell them what real weather is, none of this ‘soft rain’ nonsense”—I realized I liked the nickname more than I wanted to.
Leila liked him too. She leaned toward me that first night, watching Lucas hold court with a circle of locals, and whispered, “He’s loud ... but he seems like a good man.”
And she was right. Beneath all the noise and jokes and exaggerated stories, Lucas had a steadiness about him. A solidity. When he looked at you—really looked—you could tell he meant whatever he said next.
By the end of the night, he’d bought us a round, welcomed us to The Silver Rose as if he owned the place (he didn’t), and told us we were “sound people,” which I eventually learned was extremely high praise.
On the walk home through the cool Galway night, Leila said, “I think this is going to be our pub.”
And I said, “I think Lucas is going to be ... impossible to avoid.”
She elbowed me. “Come on now. You like him.”
And I realized, smile spreading, that she was right.
I did, in spite of myself.
DARYA
Mornings in Istanbul became a ritual of discipline, because if I let myself drift for even a minute, I knew the sadness waiting beneath everything would swallow me whole.
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