Chapter Twenty-One: The Distance
Writer's POV - Age 18
Everything fell apart in the space of three months.
Evan got into Yale. Full scholarship, inevitable acceptance given his grades and his last name. He was supposed to defer a year, wait for Fabiola to graduate, go together like they'd planned.
But Richard Harlow was in coma and the doctors said, though everyone knew it was the drinking and suddenly Margaret needed Evan at Yale now. Needed him learning business, preparing to take over Harlow Industries, becoming the heir she'd always needed.
"Come with me anyway," Evan begged the night before he left. They were in his car at the overlook, their place, and he was holding her so tight it hurt. "Defer your senior year. We'll figure it out."
"I can't." Fabiola's voice was thick with tears. "My parents they can't afford for me to go anywhere right now. Sofia needs braces, my dad's hours got cut, and I have scholarships here, at the state school, if I just finish.."
"I'll pay for everything. My trust fund.."
"No." She pulled back to look at him. "I can't let you do that. It's too much."
"It's not enough." His hands cupped her face desperately. "Fabiola, I can't do this without you. I can't breathe without you near me. How am I supposed to survive across the country?"
"We'll make it work. Phone calls, texts, visits..."
"It's not the same." His voice cracked. "I need to see you. Smell you. Touch you. I need.."
"I know." She kissed him softly. "I know what you need. But this is only for one year. I'll graduate, and then I'll come to you. I promise."
Evan looked like he wanted to argue but knew it was pointless.
So he held her instead, scenting her frantically neck, wrists, hair, collarbone like he was trying to memorize her, to carry her scent with him across the miles.
"One year," he whispered against her skin.
"One year," she promised.
They both knew it was a lie.
The first week, Evan texted constantly.
Made it to campus. Everything's cold here. Miss you.
First class was terrible. Professor's an ass. Miss you.
Roommate's okay I guess. He's not you. Miss you.
Can't sleep. Bed's too big. Miss you.
Miss you.
Miss you.
Miss you.
Fabiola responded to every one, sent him photos of her day, called him every night before bed.
By the second week, the texts slowed.
Long day. Talk tomorrow?
Busy with assignments. Love you.
Sorry, fell asleep. Call you this weekend?
By the first month, they were down to ten texts a week. Brief. Perfunctory.
How are you?
Good. You?
Fine. Busy.
Same.
Love you.
Love you too.
The phone calls became scheduled. Sunday nights at 9 PM. But Evan started missing them meetings that ran late, study groups he couldn't skip, exhaustion that made him fall asleep before his alarm.
Fabiola told herself it was normal. College was demanding. He was adjusting. They'd find their rhythm.
But in her gut, she knew.
The distance was killing them.
By the third month, Evan stopped texting first.
Fabiola would send messages How was your day? Thinking of you. Miss you. and get responses hours later. One word answers. Fine. Thanks. Same.
The Sunday calls became biweekly. Then monthly.
When they did talk, Evan sounded different. Distant. Like he was speaking from underwater.
"Are you okay?" Fabiola asked during their November call.
"Yeah. Just tired."
"Do you... do you still want this? Us?"
A long pause. Then: "Of course. I love you."
But the words sounded automatic. Rehearsed.
Like he was saying them because he was supposed to, not because he meant them.
"Evan.."
"I have to go. Study group."
"It's ten at night on a Sunday..."
"I know. Sorry. I'll call you next week."
He didn't.
By December, by Christmas break, Fabiola waited for him to come home.
But Evan stayed at Yale. "Too much work," he texted. "Can't take the time."
Fabiola spent Christmas staring at her phone, waiting for a call that never came.
By spring, the texts stopped completely.
Fabiola sent message after message.
Are you okay?
Evan, please talk to me.
I'm worried about you.
Did I do something wrong?
Please.
Nothing.
Radio silence.
By summer, by what should have been their reunion, Fabiola had to accept the truth.
Evan was gone.
Not physically she knew he was still at Yale, still alive, still existing somewhere.
But the Evan who loved her, who needed her, who scented her like she was oxygen.
That Evan had disappeared.
And Fabiola was alone.
She'd spent a year crying, waiting, hoping, believing they could survive the distance.
But distance, she learned, didn't just separate bodies.
It separated souls.
And somewhere across the country, in a cold dorm room at an elite school, Evan Harlow had let her go.
Or maybe he'd drowned.
And she just hadn't realized she was supposed to drown with him.
Evan's POV - Age 19
I stopped responding to Fabiola's texts because responding meant remembering.
And remembering meant feeling.
And feeling meant breaking apart completely.
Because every day without her was agony.
Every morning I woke up and reached for her warmth and found only cold sheets.
Every night I tried to sleep and couldn't because her scent was gone, replaced by laundry detergent and nothing.
The hunger was consuming me. The need. The desperate, aching want for something l couldn't have.
So I stopped trying.
Stopped texting. Stopped calling. Stopped letting myself feel anything at all.
Because the alternative was admitting that I couldn't survive without her.
And if I admitted that, I'd have to admit that Margaret was right.
That I was broken.
That loving me destroyed people.
That Fabiola was better off without me.
So I let her go.
Even though it killed me.
Even though every day without her felt like dying slowly.
Even though at night, alone in my dorm, I'll still heard whispers in the dark.
Lucas's voice, cold and mocking:
You let her go, just like you let me go.
You destroy everything you love.
You're alone now. Just like you deserve.
And I believed him.