It's also strange how the time moves when you're also inlove with someone you've never physically seen and touched. You start counting differently, not in days or hours, but in voice notes, pictures, "how was your day?" texts, calls and late night talks. Those midnight voice notes we both didn't even mean to make, but somehow did. I still remember her 5 minute long voice notes, talking about how much this all meant to her. Then there was me, my heart doing gymnastics, skipping a beat every second I heard her soft voice.

Some nights, we stayed up way too late asking each other the most unhinged questions ever.

She would ask as she was half asleep, "Milo bear, would you still love me if I was a worm?"

"What would you do if I didn't like the chewing gum flavor?"

"Would you carry me if there was a big bad dog chasing us?"

Then she'd challenge me like it was life or death,

"What are my favourite fruits? let's see if you remember!"

And somehow, in the middle of all that nonsense, in the giggles, eyeroll emojis, sarcastic tongue emojis, and "you're such a loser"s, I started to fall harder. Not just for her voice or her face, but for the way she asked those questions, like she needed to be reminded that love could be silly, soft and unconditional even when there's a wall that separates us.

It was always those tiny moments that I realised how much I loved her. I just wanted to bring her love for Korean dramas and movies to real life, I made a short film just for her... enough to make her feel that warmth, because loving her just felt like breathing. 

I loved the way she thought being a worm wouldn't change anything, because she was probably right. 

I loved how she'd mock me when I hesitated for half a second before answering, not even giving me the time to answer. Her messages would just tease me and say, "Wrong answer! Go to your timeout corner Milo."

Even when we weren't talking about anything, it still felt like everything to me, because it was with her.

She made questions feel like award-winning stories.

She made jokes feel like love letters written lifetimes ago.

She was always that star that shined the brightest in the nightsky.

It started small.

A conversation feeling way drier than usual,

An inside joke that didn't land the same way.

Using the wrong words that can give the wrong impression.

None of it meant much at the time. But love... we've learnt, isn't just built on laughter, jokes, playlists, gifts. It's also built on the quiet spaces in between, and whether or not we can survive them as a team.

One night, she sounded... off. Not angry. Not cold. Just distant. Like her voice was one step behind her thoughts.

I asked gently, "Are you okay sweetheart?"

"Yeah," she said. "Just tired."

But I felt like it wasn't just tired, it was the kind of tired that sits behind your eyes and weighs down your words.

Still, I didn't push. I just wanted her to know I was there for her. "Baby, did I say something wrong?" I asked quietly. "You've been a little quiet tonight."

There was a pause, long enough to make my chest tighten. She said, "No, you didn't say anything wrong." The pause continued, "I just... sometimes I feel like you don't fully understand what I mean. Or how I feel."

And there it was, a shift... not an earthquake... but a crack.

At the time, I didn't know what to say at first. I replayed our texts earlier in my head, trying to find the line I missed, saying things in the wrong tone, and the joke that didn't land.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I just... I worry, I know I can't see you or hold you or really know what you're carrying everyday, but I always want to understand you."

She sighed, "It's just hard to explain... okay? being tired like this... emotionally, and physically... I don't want to ruin the mood when we talk, so sometimes I just keep it in." 

I wanted to tell her she could ruin any mood, any time, and I'd still stay, even more. That I'd take her joy, her silence, her messy, tired days, all of it.

But in that moment, it felt like anything I said would only make the space between us wider.

She told me everything, how sometimes she holds things in because she doesn't want to be the reason the mood changes, how sometimes it ruins everything, and how being far away can make her feel like her feelings take up too much space.

I listened, this time, fully.

Not to fix it. Just to hold it with her.

I only wish I had understood that sooner.

We were okay again. Better, even.

But somewhere deep in me, I felt something. That love doesn't always break with noise. Sometimes it begins to fade in silence, in space too small to notice, until one day you do. 

And you wonder if maybe...

love needed more air and space than you were giving it.

The distance between us, no matter what never felt like space, it always felt like home. In that moment, it truly felt like the universe was on our side.