The distance between two people is rarely measured in miles. It is measured in the quiet moments—the space between a question and its answer, the empty side of a couch, or the way a room feels too large for just one person.
Tonight, the distance feels heavy.
I don't just miss you. Missing someone is a temporary state; it implies a brief waiting room before the door opens. What I feel right now is a profound yearning. It is an active, heavy ache that sits in the chest. It is the realization that you are living an entire life—breathing, laughing, ordering coffee, walking down streets—in a world that I cannot see.I look at the clock and calculate the time zone difference. I wonder if it is raining where you are. I envy the cashier who hands you your change. I envy the strangers who pass you on the sidewalk, catching a fleeting glimpse of your smile without realizing how lucky they are.
You are entirely absent from my physical space, yet you occupy every corner of my mind. Every quiet moment is filled with the phantom echo of your voice. It is a strange sort of haunting, where the ghost is still very much alive, just thousands of miles away.
I want to tell you how much I miss you, but the words feel too small. They don't capture the weight of the air in this room. So instead, I just look out the window at the same moon that is, hopefully, shining down on you too.
