The Space Between Us Glows

I pressed my hand against the window tonight and pretended the glass was your palm, cool and familiar and waiting for mine to fold into it. Every morning I wake to a pillow that holds no warmth of you, and yet somehow the weight of your love settles over me like a second blanket, impossibly gentle for something I cannot touch. I trace the routes on maps that would carry me to your door, and I whisper your name into the quiet until the room feels less empty.

But distance is not absence, I keep telling myself, and I believe it more each day we survive apart. We are building something the miles cannot unravel, a language of patience and promises spoken through screens and static and late-night voice memos that I save and replay like songs. When I finally reach you, I will hold on as though the earth itself might try to pull us apart again, and it won't, because we will have already proven that nothing can.