Counting Nights Until You

Every night I press my phone to my ear and pretend your breathing is the sound of the room next door. The distance between us is just geography — a stubborn map refusing to fold the way I want it to. But my words travel farther than any road could carry me, and tonight I am sending every quiet thought across the dark to find you.

I keep a list of things I want to tell you when I finally close this gap — small things, like the way the morning light hit the kitchen wrong without you in it. Hope is not a weak word. It is the bridge I walk across every day, one sentence at a time, until there is no space left between us at all.