Chapter 31: Miles to You
Emma stared at the plane ticket for hours.
It lay on her windowsill beside her mug of cooling tea, the golden Paris morning brushing soft light across its glossy surface. A one-way flight. Boston. In two weeks.
She should have been ecstatic.
But instead, she felt… frozen.
Not in fear. But in the terrifying, electrifying weight of choice.
---
In the days that followed, Emma moved like someone tiptoeing through her own life.
She painted more—feverishly, compulsively. Large canvases with wild brushstrokes. Fire-colored skies and collapsing architecture. A self-portrait with no face.
Julien visited the gallery again, this time just as a friend. His presence was calm, steady. Not romantic. They had already danced their unspoken goodbye.
"You're not painting for an audience anymore," he remarked one day, tilting his head as he studied her latest piece.
"I'm painting to survive," she muttered, her eyes hollowed by sleepless nights.
He looked at her for a long moment. "Or to say goodbye."
Emma didn't answer.
---
Lucas called every night.
Their conversations bounced between playful and serious—laughing about American peanut butter brands one second and spiraling into "what if I'm not enough for your new world" the next.
"I don't want you to come here for me," he told her once, voice low and laced with worry. "I want you to come here for you. For us."
Emma whispered, "What if I don't know who me is anymore?"
Lucas paused.
"Then we figure it out together."
---
The night before her flight, Emma stood at the Seine alone.
Paris shimmered behind her like an old lover—familiar and untouchable. Her sketchbook was clutched tight in her arms. Inside were the last drawings she would make here. Each page a farewell.
She tossed a coin into the river, closed her eyes, and whispered, "Merci."
Not goodbye.
Merci.
---
The airport was a blur of fluorescent lights and crying toddlers.
Emma sat at her gate, nerves twisted into origami. She had no idea what Boston would be like. Would she fit in with Lucas's world? MIT's brilliant chaos? The rhythm of a life that wasn't hers—yet?
But then she opened her phone and saw a message from him.
> Lucas:
I'm at the gate. The one where you land. Waiting.
Just so you know, I already bought snacks.
She smiled, fingers trembling.
And she boarded.
---
The flight was long. Restless.
She barely slept. She reread Lucas's old texts. She sketched the clouds outside. At some point, she whispered, "I'm doing this," into the hum of the plane's engine like it was a prayer.
When the plane landed, her stomach dropped into her knees.
Immigration. Baggage claim. Fluorescent lights again.
And then—
There he was.
Lucas.
Holding a ridiculous cardboard sign that read: "EMMA. The Artist Formerly Known As My Crush."
She laughed out loud.
Then ran to him.
This hug was different.
Not desperate.
Not fearful.
But home.
---
Boston was a colder kind of beautiful.
Crisper skies, faster streets. The air smelled less like fresh bread and more like ambition. Emma moved into a small sublet near the river—shared with two other students. The walls were bare. The heater rattled like a jazz band in a fight.
But every morning, Lucas was there—walking her to class, holding her hand through culture shock and confusion, helping her navigate the American school system.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she moaned after orientation.
"Neither do most adults," he whispered with a grin. "We fake it till we make it."
---
Weeks passed.
Emma adjusted. Slowly.
She enrolled in an art course at a local university while preparing her portfolio for future residencies. She took up a part-time job at a café, where she burned her first three cappuccinos and earned the nickname Steam Queen.
Lucas came by every shift.
"Here for emotional support," he'd say, stealing muffins.
One night, they stayed up on her tiny balcony, drinking hot chocolate and watching the city's lights.
"I still feel like I'm on the edge of something," Emma whispered.
Lucas kissed her temple. "That's where all the best things begin."
---
Their love in Boston was quieter.
Less dramatic.
More rooted.
They cooked together. She painted while he studied. They argued over music. They made up with forehead kisses and long hugs that didn't ask for anything but presence.
But it wasn't perfect.
Emma missed home sometimes.
She missed Paris's warmth, her parents' kitchen, the way the Seine murmured secrets.
One evening, she broke down in the middle of a grocery aisle because the yogurt brands confused her and she couldn't find baguettes.
Lucas didn't say "You'll be fine."
He said, "Let's go home."
And they did.
And he held her until her breath evened out.
---
Then came the gallery call.
Emma had submitted her new collection—tentatively titled Becoming Distance—to a local art showcase.
One day, while wiping cappuccino foam off her apron, she received the email.
She had been selected.
Tears fell before she could even read the full message.
Lucas showed up ten minutes later, somehow already knowing. "I told you," he said, twirling her in the middle of the café, "they'd fall for you like I did."
---
The gallery night was quiet, intimate.
The pieces were raw. Sketches of adaptation. Paintings of homes layered inside hearts. A map of Paris shaped like a ribcage.
One particular piece caught everyone's attention.
A painting of two figures in a crowded city.
One with a suitcase.
One with open arms.
The caption beneath read: "What we carry. What we choose."
---
Afterward, Emma and Lucas walked back through the city's sleepy streets.
Snow drifted like feathers. Their fingers were laced, gloves forgotten.
"I think I love this city now," Emma whispered.
Lucas stopped. "Only now?"
She smiled. "Because it finally has you and me in it."
He pulled her close. "I was always here. But now… you are, too."
---
That night, tangled in his arms beneath the soft hum of a city still learning to love them, Emma whispered, "I don't regret anything."
Lucas didn't reply right away.
He just kissed the top of her head.
And pulled her closer.