Miles: You home?
Me: Just got in.
Miles: Good. I’ve been waiting to hear that.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary, warmth spreading through me. I should have text him more when I landed but the need to get home consumed me as the worries creeped in. I sent a one word text that I landed and immediately went into focus-mode on getting back to life. On a whim I let my fingers type without second guessing what to say.
Me: I miss you already.
There’s a pause, just long enough to make my breath hitch, then his reply comes through.
Miles: Yeah. Me too.
***
Less than a week later, life is back in full swing like I never left. Work comes back at me hard and fast. Emails. Meetings. Patients. The relentless rhythm of responsibility snapping back into place like I never left. I move through it all on autopilot for the first few days, half of my brain still somewhere else.
Dr. Reeves doesn’t miss a beat. “So,” he says one afternoon, leaning against the doorway of my office, smirk firmly in place. “Enjoy your little vacation?”
I keep my eyes on my chart. “It was family-related.”
“Uh-huh.” His gaze slides over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “You look relaxed. Must’ve been nice getting away.”
I finally look up. “Is there something you need, Dr. Reeves?”
He chuckles, unfazed. “Just checking in.” Without another word, he walks off and I am left uneasy.
After he leaves, my hands shake with a familiar mix of anger and helplessness. I breathe through it, grounding myself the way I always do, naming objects, sounds, sensations until the edge dulls. I can’t explain why the man makes my skin crawl, but he does. My gut is always screaming get away when he comes around.
That night, I text Miles about it. I gave him a brief rundown about things previously, but my frustration with Dr. Reeves is at an all-time high and I need to get this off my chest to someone.
Me: Work reminder, some men are still exhausting.
Miles: You want me to have a chat with him?
I laugh quietly thinking about when I lied about Miles and he still fell in line with the play like it was real. My mind wonders, what are we doing? But I don’t ask because defining this feels like it might curse it.
Me: Tempting. But no.
Miles: Good. Orange isn’t my color. And to have the good visits we gotta get married. Might be a bit too soon for you on that one.
I laugh. This is us, casual. We talk every day. We text throughout the days and nights as time allows. Sometimes it’s short—check-ins between meetings, work, or errands. Sometimes it stretches late into the night, voices low, sharing pieces of ourselves that don’t fit neatly into texts.
I learn his laugh better. The quiet pauses he leaves when he’s thinking. The way he says my name like it means something specific.
Distance is strange like that. It forces honesty. There’s no room for half-attention when all you have is words.
Still, doubt creeps in during the quiet moments. What are we building? How does this work when our lives are rooted in different places?
Some nights, after Papa falls asleep and the house settles, I lay in bed wondering if we’re chasing something impossible—or if this is just what something real feels like before it’s had time to solidify. I don’t ask and Miles doesn’t push. There isn’t a demand for answers I don’t have.
That might be what scares me most. Because for the first time, I’m not running ahead to manage the outcome. I’m letting it unfold. Things are working out however they are meant to and I’m not going to push it.
Taking care of Papa holds me steady again. The routines return, familiar and heavy. Some days are better than others. Some days he remembers my name all day long. Other days, he asks for my Nanny like she might walk in any minute. They had over fifty years of marriage together, good times and bad, she was his person and he was hers. I can only hope to find a love and loyalty like theirs.
I hold his hand through it all. At night, when I’m bone-tired and emotionally wrung out, my phone lights up with Miles’s name, and the weight eases just enough to let me breathe.
I don’t know what this is yet. But I know this, I didn’t leave Salemburg behind. I carried it with me. And somehow, across all this distance, something is still growing.
