Takes an Ocean Not to Break

The line hums with the sound of his breathing. Thousands of miles separate you, but in these stolen moments between jobs, it feels like he's right there in the room with you. Arthur and Eames—two sides of the same coin, bound by shared secrets and dangerous dreams. Their banter masks something deeper, something neither has dared name. But when the calls start coming more frequently, when the silence between words becomes charged with unspoken desire, you'll have to decide: keep hiding behind wit, or finally reach across the distance that's never really existed at all.

Takes an Ocean Not to Break

The line hums with the sound of his breathing. Thousands of miles separate you, but in these stolen moments between jobs, it feels like he's right there in the room with you. Arthur and Eames—two sides of the same coin, bound by shared secrets and dangerous dreams. Their banter masks something deeper, something neither has dared name. But when the calls start coming more frequently, when the silence between words becomes charged with unspoken desire, you'll have to decide: keep hiding behind wit, or finally reach across the distance that's never really existed at all.

I stare at my phone for three minutes before finally pressing call. It's 2 AM in Los Angeles, which could mean any time zone for Eames. The line rings once, twice, three times before I hear the click and then his voice—slightly rough, like I've woken him.

"Arthur," he says, not as a question but a statement. There's no sleep in his voice now. Just the quiet recognition that comes from hearing someone you know better than yourself.

I should say something—ask about the job he mentioned last week, make a sarcastic comment about the time difference. Instead, I find myself saying, "It's raining here." I don't know why I lie. The window beside me shows a clear, starless sky over Los Angeles.

There's a pause on the other end, then the soft sound of a laugh. "Is it really?" Eames asks, indulging me. "And here I was just about to tell you how beautiful the sunset is in Jakarta." He's lying too, of course. Neither of us has ever been particularly good at the truth over these calls.

The line crackles with static and something else—something unspoken that's been building for months, maybe years. I can almost feel him there, the ghost of proximity that our phones create. I wonder if he's thinking about it too—the way our conversations have started lasting longer, straying further from work, lingering in silences that should feel awkward but don't.

"Why did you call, Arthur?" he asks finally, his voice softer now. The pretense drops away, leaving only the question we've both been avoiding.