“Rent just went up again,” Sam typed, the words heavy on the screen. She stared at her phone, sitting in the corner of her tiny Brooklyn apartment. The radiator hissed, and the faint smell of burnt toast wafted from the neighbor’s kitchen.

Moments later, the reply came: “I can’t imagine. Here, rents have been capped since the crisis. Have you thought about leaving?”

Sam sighed. “Where would I go, Marta? The U.S. is like quicksand. Once you’re in, you can’t afford to get out.”

Across the Atlantic, Marta sat in her sunny Lisbon flat, sipping espresso. Outside, the pastel buildings of her neighborhood gleamed in the afternoon light. Her job as a remote UX designer paid enough to cover rent, groceries, and even a weekend trip to the Algarve now and then. But she didn’t say that to Sam. She didn’t want to widen the gap between them.

“I heard Europe’s doing well,” Sam texted. “Energy bills down, inflation stabilized. How?”

Marta hesitated. It was hard to explain. Her government had subsidized energy costs, poured resources into public transit, and encouraged remote work. Sure, taxes were higher, but she could breathe. “We chose differently,” she wrote finally.

Sam read the message, her jaw tightening. “Must be nice,” she muttered aloud. Her job in marketing barely covered her bills. Healthcare? A luxury. Savings? A fantasy. Every month felt like a war of attrition.

“Why don’t you visit?” Marta offered, trying to bridge the distance.

“I can’t even afford the flight,” Sam replied, her fingers shaking.

Marta stared at her screen, guilt curling in her chest. She wanted to help but knew her words would feel like charity. “I wish it wasn’t like this,” she typed instead.

“Me too,” Sam wrote back.

They sat in silence, miles apart, the conversation a reminder of how two lives, once intertwined, had diverged with the tides of global policy. Sam stared out at the darkening skyline; Marta gazed at the shimmering Atlantic.

Neither knew how to cross the chasm between them.