We call Vance from my apartment, phone on speaker between us on the kitchen counter. Ethan's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing gently, but I can feel the nervous energy radiating off him. Draft news could mean anything—good, bad, life-changing in ways neither of us can predict.
"Gentlemen, lady." Vance's voice crackles through the speaker, smugger than usual. "I have excellent news. The championship performance exceeded every expectation. Ethan's draft stock has skyrocketed."
"How much?" Ethan leans forward, grip tightening on my fingers.
"Three teams are seriously interested. Not just interested—actively competing." Vance pauses for dramatic effect, the way he always does when he's about to drop something big. "We're talking lottery potential if the combine goes well. First round is almost guaranteed."
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. First round. Lottery potential. Everything Ethan has worked for since he was fourteen years old, shooting hoops in his driveway while his mother worked double shifts to keep the lights on.
"That's incredible." My voice comes out steady, supportive, the perfect girlfriend response. "Ethan, that's amazing."
He looks at me, eyes bright with excitement and something else—caution, maybe. Like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Which teams?"
"Charlotte, Denver, and Seattle." Vance rattles off the names like a shopping list. "Charlotte's a maybe—they're rebuilding, might go younger. Denver's solid, good development program. But Seattle..." He pauses again. "Seattle is the golden ticket. Best coaching staff, strongest roster, most invested ownership. They want you badly."
Seattle.
The word lands in my chest like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spread outward, disturbing everything.
Seattle is three thousand miles away. A six-hour flight. A different time zone, a different coast, a different life entirely.
"What's their timeline?" Ethan asks, still watching my face.
"They want to meet before the combine. Fly you out next week for facility tours, chemistry reads with the coaching staff." Vance's voice sharpens with excitement. "This is the one, Ethan. If Seattle drafts you, you're set. Championship-caliber team, media market that loves winners, endorsement opportunities that Denver and Charlotte can't match."
I stare at the phone, willing my expression to stay neutral. Seattle. Three years apart nearly destroyed me—the grief, the loneliness, the slow erosion of everything I thought I knew about myself. And now, just when we've finally found our way back to each other, the universe wants to do it again.
"I need to think about it." Ethan's voice cuts through my spiral. "I'll call you back tomorrow."
"Ethan, this isn't something you think about. This is—"
"I said I'll call you back." He ends the call before Vance can argue, and the sudden silence feels louder than the conversation.
We sit there for a long moment, neither of us speaking. His hand is still holding mine, but the touch feels different now—desperate rather than comfortable, like he's afraid I'll slip away.
"It's okay," I say finally, forcing the words out with a smile that feels like cracking glass. "This is amazing. This is your dream, Ethan. Everything you've worked for."
"Harper—"
"Seattle is incredible. The team, the city, the opportunities." I'm talking too fast, the way I always do when I'm trying to convince myself of something. "We'll figure it out. Long distance isn't that hard anymore, right? Video calls, flights on off days. People do it all the time."
"Harper." He says my name sharper this time, cutting through my rambling. "Look at me."
I force myself to meet his eyes, and what I see there makes my chest ache. He knows. He can see right through the performance, the same way he always could.
"I haven't decided anything yet," he says quietly. "Denver is still an option. Charlotte too."
"But Seattle is the best offer. You said it yourself—championship-caliber team, best coaching staff." I squeeze his hand, trying to make my smile reach my eyes. "I'm not going to be the reason you turn down your dream."
"What if you're part of my dream?"
The question hangs between us, vulnerable and terrifying. I don't know how to answer it—don't know how to reconcile the girl who wants him to stay with the woman who knows she can't ask him to.
"Let's not talk about it tonight." I stand up, pulling my hand from his. "This is good news. We should be celebrating, not stressing about logistics."
He watches me move around the kitchen, opening wine we don't need, arranging cheese on a board neither of us will eat. I can feel his eyes tracking my every movement, reading the tension in my shoulders, the forced casualness of my gestures.
"Harper." His voice is soft, careful. "We're going to be okay. Whatever happens."
"I know." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "I know we will."
That night, I lie beside him in the darkness, listening to his breathing slow into sleep. His arm is draped across my waist, holding me close even in unconsciousness, and I should feel safe. I should feel loved.
Instead, I feel the walls going back up.
Seattle. Three thousand miles of distance, three hours of time difference, an entire country between his new life and my old one. I did long distance once before—not by choice, not with any hope of reunion—and it nearly broke me. The silence, the loneliness, the slow realization that the person I loved had become a stranger.
How do I survive it again?
I turn my head to watch him sleep, tracing the familiar lines of his face in the moonlight. He looks peaceful, happy, unburdened by the fears that are clawing at my chest. He's on the edge of everything he ever wanted—the NBA, financial security for his mother, validation for every sacrifice he's made since childhood.
And I love him too much to hold him back.
That's the truth I keep circling, the one I can't escape no matter how hard I try. I love him more than I love my own comfort, my own security, my own desperate need to keep him close. If Seattle is what's best for his career, I have to support it. I have to smile and wave and pretend my heart isn't shattering.
I have to let him go. Again.
The thought settles into my bones like ice water, numbing everything it touches. I curl closer to him, pressing my face against his chest, memorizing the rhythm of his heartbeat. He murmurs something in his sleep and pulls me tighter, and I close my eyes against the tears threatening to fall.
This is what loving someone looks like, I tell myself. Wanting their happiness more than your own. Being willing to break yourself so they can be whole.
But somewhere deep inside, in the place I've tried so hard to heal, the old familiar walls start rising again. Brick by brick, stone by stone, the same defenses I built when he left me the first time.
Just in case.