This distance isn't just kilometers on a map. It's the space between our everyday lives. You don't see me brewing tea in my old blue mug. I don't hear you coughing in the morning. We live parallel lives that intersect only as pixels on a screen.
Sometimes it feels like I'm looking at you through thick glass. I see your smile, I hear your voice, but I don't feel the warmth of your hand. I can't touch your face when you're telling me something important. I can't just hold you silently when you're going through a hard time.
Technology is both a miracle and a curse. It gives the illusion of closeness. Here you are, on my screen, smiling. But you're not here. And when the connection breaks, when the screen goes dark, you disappear. As if you never existed. All that remains is the silence in my room and the emptiness inside.
It's not the kilometers that kill me. It's the moments we don't share that kill me. Your laughter at a colleague's joke I didn't hear. My tears from a stupid movie that you didn't wipe away. Our silent dinners, each in our own apartment, when we could be sharing the same dish and arguing over who gets to finish the last bite.
I know there's a reason for this distance. I try to be strong. To fill my days, to find joy in the little things, to make plans for the future, our future. But some days. Some days this separation eats me up from the inside, like silent rust.