The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 8
ELIAS
I knew it was a risk, asking her to meet again at the institute. Even in a quiet student lounge where no one paid much attention, people talked. Eyes lingered. Patterns were noticed. And in this city, those things mattered more than I’d ever realized.
But I also knew I needed to see her.
She arrived just after five, still in her work clothes, hair slightly wind-tousled under her scarf, eyes lit up when she saw me. I felt it again—that shift in my chest, subtle but unmistakable.
We started with English practice. I had pulled a few short reading passages and some vocabulary questions I thought she’d enjoy, and as usual, she breezed through most of them. I tried to focus, to stay in the role of teacher, helper, whatever this was supposed to be. But fifteen minutes in, we were already off track, talking about the language quirks that made no logical sense and laughing at a bizarre idiom she came across in a reading exercise.
I don’t know what pushed me to do it—maybe it was the easy way she made me forget how careful I was supposed to be—but I decided to just tell her.
“Leila,” I said, shifting in my chair a little. “There’s something I should probably mention.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Okay.”
“I told you I have German citizenship, and that’s true. But I was actually born in the U.S. I’m American, too.”
She blinked once, maybe twice, then gave the tiniest shrug. “Okay. So?”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “So nothing, I guess. I just ... didn’t want you to feel like I wasn’t being upfront.”
She tilted her head, thoughtful. “I kind of suspected. You speak like someone who didn’t just study there—you grew up there.”
I smiled, still watching her closely. “And you’re okay with that?”
“Elias,” she said, almost laughing. “You think I’m going to freak out over that?”
It struck me again how different she was. Not just from what I’d been warned about, but from anyone I’d known here.
“I’ve always wanted to know more about places like that,” she added, her voice softening. “Not the usual things, not Hollywood or Disneyland or whatever. But the landscapes, the places I’ve only seen in books. National parks, old forests, the desert. I’ve read about them.”
“Which ones?” I asked.
“Yosemite. Zion. Acadia. There’s one with tall redwood trees, right?”
“Muir Woods,” I said, surprised. “That’s near where I lived for a while.”
She smiled at that, clearly delighted. “I used to have this postcard of a waterfall in Yosemite. I kept it in a drawer so no one would ask questions. It was just a picture, but I always imagined what it would be like to be there. To breathe in that kind of air.”
There was a pause, not awkward—just full.
“You really are something else,” I said, meaning every word.
Eventually, I looked at the time and sat back. “We should wrap this up.”
She nodded, her expression turning serious again.
“I know this might not seem like much,” I continued, “but I’m starting to understand how things are here. I don’t want to do anything that could damage your reputation—or cause problems with your family. That matters.”
Her eyes softened, and for a moment, I thought she might reach for my hand. Instead, she folded her arms and gave me a quiet smile.
“I appreciate that. Really. But don’t worry too much. I can take care of myself if I have to.”
Then, almost defiantly, she added, “I’m my own woman, Elias.”
And somehow, that meant more to me than anything else she could have said.
LEILA
After work, Darya and I met at a little café tucked behind one of the busier streets. It wasn’t flashy—just a few tables, soft music, and a decent espresso machine—but it was one of our spots, a place where we could talk without feeling like we were being watched.
We claimed a corner table and ordered two strong coffees and a plate of those cinnamon cookies we both loved. Darya was already halfway into a story about a coworker’s awkward phone mishap when I finally interrupted her.
“I found out something about Elias,” I said, stirring my coffee slowly.
She paused mid-bite. “Okay. What?”
“He was born in the United States. He’s American. He has German citizenship too, through his mom, but ... yeah. American.”
Darya’s eyebrows lifted, but only slightly. “And?”
“And ... nothing. It doesn’t matter to me.” I glanced out the window, then back at her. “But it does add layers. Risk. More reason for my family to blow everything up if they ever find out.”
Darya leaned forward, all her attention now on me. “Do you want it to matter?”
“No,” I said immediately. Then I hesitated. “But it might. Not because of me, but because of where I live. Who I live with.”
Darya nodded slowly, her eyes thoughtful.
“Does this make my life impossible?” I asked, the words heavier than I intended.
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