After Ryan’s flight, New York didn’t feel heavier or quieter—just different.  

Like someone had turned the color down by ten percent.  

Emily went back to work, same bar, same chaos, same rhythm.  

But something inside her had shifted.  

She no longer waited for his messages like oxygen.  

She still looked forward to them—but she could breathe without them now.  

It wasn’t about letting go.  

It was about learning how to stand still without feeling left behind.

Ryan, on the other side of the country, settled into his new routine.  

Long workdays, coffee too strong, sunsets too fast.  

He’d talk to her when he could, laugh when she teased him about “turning into a PowerPoint in human form.”  

It wasn’t the same, but it was theirs.  

Sometimes he’d hear a song or see a flash of yellow light and think, *she’d love this.*  

He’d start to text her, stop halfway, then send it anyway.  

Not every thought needed a reply.  

Some were just small bridges over distance.  

Disco, the cat, had become a full-time therapist.  

Whenever Emily got too quiet, the cat would climb onto her laptop, effectively canceling productivity.  

Jess called it “emotional intervention.”  

“You’ve replaced your boyfriend with a narcissistic furball,” she said.  

Emily shrugged. “At least this one doesn’t leave for conferences.”  

“Yet.”  

They both laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that hides the ache underneath.  

Summer rolled in hot and uninvited.  

The bar turned into a sauna with alcohol.  

Emily’s nights blurred into shifts and sleep.  

Sometimes she’d walk home past 3 a.m., heels in hand, music low in her ears.  

She liked the way the city looked at that hour—half-awake, half-dreaming.  

One night, she called Ryan without thinking.  

He picked up on the second ring, voice soft from sleep.  

“Hey.”  

“Hey,” she whispered.  

“Everything okay?”  

“Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”  

He smiled into the phone. “Me neither.”  

They didn’t talk about anything important.  

They didn’t need to.  

The sound of breathing on the other end was enough to feel less alone.  

By August, they’d found a rhythm again.  

Video calls, weekend visits, stolen hours in airports.  

It wasn’t ideal—but it was real.  

And somehow, that made it beautiful.

Still, something lingered under the surface—  

a question neither of them wanted to ask out loud: *How long can love last in transit?*  

Ryan came back to New York for a week in late August.  

They met at the same bar where it all began.  

This time, she was off shift.  

This time, she was waiting.  

When he walked in, she felt it before she saw him—the familiar pull, the way her chest seemed to recognize him faster than her eyes did.  

He looked different again. Calmer. A little more sun on his skin, a little more distance in his gaze.  

He smiled. “You still overpour?”  

“Only for sentimental customers.”  

They sat by the window, the city outside humming like an old song.  

For a while, they talked about normal things—work, food, the weather pretending to be autumn.  

Then silence settled in.  

Not the uncomfortable kind, but the one that asks for honesty.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said finally.  

“Dangerous sentence.”  

She smiled faintly. “I think maybe we’re okay being apart.”  

Ryan looked up. “Okay?”  

“Not ideal. Not tragic. Just… okay. Maybe love doesn’t always need to live in the same zip code.”  

He was quiet for a moment.  

Then: “I hate how much that makes sense.”  

“Me too.”  

They both laughed, softly, the kind that comes from understanding too well.  

They spent the rest of the night walking, talking about everything but themselves—movies, food trucks, the cat’s vendetta against his hoodie.  

When they reached her building, she stopped.  

“You know,” she said, “we might just be two parallel lines.”  

He frowned. “That never meet?”  

She shook her head. “No. That run alongside each other—close enough to see, not enough to collide.”  

He thought about that for a long second.  

“Then I hope we never stop running.”  

She smiled. “Me too.”

He left again that Sunday.  

No tears, no promises—just a long hug that said everything words couldn’t.  

Later, Emily stood on her balcony, watching planes blink across the sky like slow-moving stars.  

Somewhere up there was his.  

Somewhere, maybe, he was looking down.  

She whispered, “Safe flight.”  

Then turned back inside, where Disco was waiting, demanding dinner and attention.  

The city buzzed below, alive and restless.  

She poured a drink, raised the glass to no one in particular, and smiled.

Love hadn’t ended.  

It had simply changed shape—  

still steady, still moving,  

like two lines that never stopped running side by side.