The scholarship letter arrived on a Monday, thin and unassuming — its weight far heavier than paper should carry.
Congratulations, Elara Santiago.
She read the words three times before it sank in.
Full tuition. Housing included. Acceptance into the Creative Arts Program starting in the fall.
Two hours away.
Two hours felt like two worlds.
Elara’s hands trembled as she folded the letter back into its envelope.
That afternoon beneath the cedar tree, the words lodged behind her ribs.
“I got it,” she finally said.
Micah stilled instantly.
“Got… the scholarship?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Well?” A grin broke across his face. “Elara—that’s—”
His excitement faltered when he saw her expression.
“But you don’t look happy.”
“I am,” she whispered. “I’m just… terrified.”
He sat beside her instead of celebrating.
“Of leaving?”
“Of what leaving does to us.”
Micah swallowed.
For weeks now they’d danced around the truth without touching it — that love didn’t make distances shorter.
“I don’t want to hold you back,” he said slowly.
“And I don’t want to choose between love and my dream,” she replied.
Silence fell.
Above them, the cedar branches swayed, old and patient — as if watching two children stumble toward adulthood.
---
The unspoken question sat between them:
Will we last?
Neither said it aloud.
They couldn’t yet stand to hear the answer.
Elara studied Micah’s profile — the thoughtful crease between his eyebrows, the way he always watched the horizon when he was processing something heavy.
“Do you believe in long-distance?” she finally asked.
He exhaled through his nose.
“I believe in effort.”
She smiled faintly. “That sounds like a yes pretending to be practical.”
“Maybe.”
He turned toward her.
“But effort only works if we both keep choosing it.”
She nodded.
“I would.”
---
Days softened into preparation.
College forms replaced handwritten notes.
Conversations grew layered with future phrases:
Before you go…
When you visit…
Maybe over winter break…
It wasn’t sadness exactly — more like the gentle ache of approaching change.
Micah became quieter during those weeks.
Elara noticed the heaviness creeping back into his posture — the old reflex to brace alone.
One night she confronted him.
“You’re pulling away.”
He hesitated. “I’m preparing.”
“For what?”
“For not having you here every day.”
The words stung.
“So you’re training yourself to miss me instead of fighting it?”
He searched her eyes.
“I don’t know how to fight change without breaking.”
She crossed the space between them and slipped her arms around him.
“Don’t brace for absence,” she murmured into his shoulder. “Brace for connection.”
His arms folded tight around her.
“You always make things sound possible.”
“Because they are,” she insisted.
---
Elara’s departure only weeks away, the tension peaked.
They sat beneath the cedar tree, fingers loosely entwined.
“Promise me something,” Micah said quietly.
“What?”
“Don’t disappear into that new world.”
“I won’t,” she replied immediately. “I’ll carry this one inside me.”
He nodded.
“But promise you’ll let yourself change,” he added. “Don’t come back smaller.”
Her throat tightened.
“I won’t grow away from you — I’ll grow toward myself.”
“Even if that growth leads you somewhere different than me?”
The honesty of the question hurt.
She answered anyway.
“Even then.”
His eyes hardened briefly — not with anger — but with something closer to grief.
He leaned forward and kissed her — slow and searching — like memorizing a face before it changed.
---
Their last late-night meeting beneath the cedar came quietly.
A blanket spread under the stars.
No tearful speeches. No dramatic promises.
Just presence.
At one point, Micah whispered, “I think loving you taught me how to want a future.”
She rolled onto her side, studying his face.
“And you taught me how to be brave enough to step into one.”
They lay silently — hands linked, hearts full — knowing the next chapter of their lives waited beyond this moment.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
✨ "When the Light Returns" ✨
Espiritual🌙 PROLOGUE At 17 years old, Elara James believed God lived in the space between her heartbeat and her breath. She felt Him when her mother hummed hymns in the kitchen, when sunlight broke through storm clouds, and when she whispered bedtime prayers...
