A Distant Pride

The story never quite comes together because neither of them has reached the ending yet.

Maybe that’s the problem.

In my draft, their names are Elias and Rowan.

Elias lives on the East Coast. He works strange hours, cares for a parent who relies on him more than he’d like to admit, and has spent years trying to convince himself that being needed is the same thing as being loved.

Rowan lives in Texas.

The first version of the story begins with distance. Thousands of miles of it. Phone screens. Time zones. Shared playlists. Text messages that arrive while the other person is asleep.

The second version begins with patience.

That’s because Rowan teaches Elias something nobody else ever has.

Silence.

At first, Elias hates it.

Every conversation he’s ever valued has been measured by activity. Questions. Stories. Reactions. Laughter. If a conversation slows down, he feels responsible for filling the space before it dies.

Rowan doesn’t seem bothered by empty moments.

Sometimes they’ll be on FaceTime together and neither one says anything for thirty seconds.

A minute.

Longer.

Elias waits for panic to arrive.

It never does.

Rowan simply exists there.

Breathing.

Thinking.

Present.

Over time, Elias begins to realize silence isn’t always a sign that something is wrong.

Sometimes silence is trust.

That realization becomes the emotional center of the story.

Or at least I think it should.

That’s where the draft starts falling apart.

Because while the story claims to be about patience, it’s secretly about uncertainty.

The plot keeps circling the same question.

What are they becoming?

Neither man has an answer.

Rowan talks about visiting the East Coast.

Five days.

Five whole days.

The trip is planned months in advance.

The draft treats this like a beacon on the horizon. Every chapter points toward it. Every conversation seems to bend in its direction.

Elias tells himself not to read into it.

Friends visit friends.

People travel.

Not every plane ticket carries a confession.

Still, he wonders.

He wonders every time Rowan talks about places he wants to see.

Every time he mentions restaurants.

Every time he says, “When I’m there.”

The uncertainty grows stronger because the feelings do too.

Elias knows he’s falling.

Not dramatically.

Not recklessly.

More like a slow tide creeping higher along a shoreline.

One day he notices he misses Rowan before their daily conversation begins.

Another day he realizes Rowan has become the first person he wants to tell things to.

Then one morning he catches himself smiling at a notification.

That’s usually how people know.

Not when lightning strikes.

When routine starts feeling special.

The draft contains a scene that I’ve rewritten dozens of times.

It’s the moment Elias plans to tell Rowan the truth.

Not over text.

Not during a phone call.

Not hidden behind a joke.

In person.

Across a dinner table.

Five days finally arriving after months of waiting.

The scene should be the climax.

Instead, it’s a blank page.

Every version feels dishonest because the story hasn’t reached that moment yet.

I don’t know what Rowan will say.

I don’t know if he’s traveling because he feels the same way.

I don’t know whether friendship will become something larger or remain exactly what it already is.

A writer is supposed to know the ending.

This writer doesn’t.

That’s part of what’s holding the piece back.

The other part is harder to admit.

Distance.

The story keeps trying to pretend that love is the obstacle.

It isn’t.

Geography is.

Family is.

Responsibility is.

Rowan lives in a converted shed behind a family home, surrounded by people who depend on him.

Elias lives with a parent who depends on him too.

Both men have built lives around being available to others.

Neither has figured out what it means to build a life for themselves.

The result is a story that keeps reaching toward possibility while carrying anchors tied around its ankles.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t finished it.

The relationship itself is unfinished.

The visit hasn’t happened.

The confession hasn’t been spoken.

The future hasn’t revealed itself.

Everything important exists in the space between now and later.

Ironically, that brings me back to the lesson Rowan unknowingly teaches throughout the story.

Patience.

The draft wants answers.

Life hasn’t provided them yet.

Maybe the ending isn’t missing because I failed to write it.

Maybe it’s missing because it hasn’t happened.

For now, A Distant Pride remains unfinished.

Not because the characters stopped growing.

Not because the feelings aren’t real.

Not because the story lacks direction.

It remains unfinished because somewhere between Texas and the East Coast, between daily conversations and meaningful silences, between friendship and something more, two people are still discovering what they mean to each other.

And until they do, the story can only wait.

Just like they are.