We Were Typing at the Same Time

It always started the same way.

Three little dots.

Blinking.

Appearing.

Disappearing.

Typing…

That’s how I knew you were still there.

Not close.

Not here.

But somewhere between intention and hesitation.

We never said “I love you.”

Not properly.

Not in the way people do when they’re sure.

We said things like:

“Did you eat?”

“Text me when you get home.”

“You should sleep.”

Which, somehow, meant more.

Our conversations lived inside a screen.

Time-stamped.

Saved.

Scrollable.

We could go back to any moment.

Replay any feeling.

Re-read things we didn’t fully understand the first time.

Like the night you said:

“I wish things were different.”

I never asked what you meant.

Because I was afraid of the answer.

Distance is a strange thing.

It doesn’t just measure space.

It measures courage.

And we—

We were always just short of it.

There were nights we almost crossed the line.

Almost said something irreversible.

“I think I—”

Typing…

Paused…

Deleted.

And I would stare at the screen, heart racing, as your words disappeared before they could exist.

We lived in those unfinished sentences.

In the almosts.

Sometimes, I would type something too.

Something honest.

Something dangerous.

“I don’t want to pretend this is nothing.”

Typing…

Then I’d delete it.

Because what if you didn’t feel the same?

What if naming it made it fragile?

What if it broke?

So we stayed safe.

And in staying safe—

We stayed incomplete.

There was a rhythm to us.

Morning texts.

Late-night conversations.

Random thoughts sent without context.

You once sent me a photo of the sky.

Just that.

No caption.

I stared at it for a long time.

Because I knew what you meant.

I wish you were here.

I didn’t say it back.

I just sent a picture of my own sky.

Same color.

Different place.

That’s what we were.

Same feelings.

Different realities.

One night, everything changed.

Not dramatically.

Not suddenly.

Just… quietly.

Like all important things do.

You took longer to reply.

Not hours.

Not days.

Just enough that I noticed.

And once you notice—

You can’t unnotice.

The three dots appeared less often.

Stayed for shorter periods.

Typing…

Stopped.

Typing…

Gone.

I told myself it was nothing.

That you were busy.

That life happens outside of screens.

But doubt has a way of growing in silence.

I started rereading old messages.

Looking for signs.

Clues.

Moments I might have missed.

Was there a shift in your tone?

A hesitation I ignored?

Or was I just trying to make sense of something that had no clear reason?

Then one night—

You didn’t reply at all.

I waited.

Refreshed the chat.

Checked my connection.

Opened and closed the app like that might change something.

Nothing.

No typing.

No dots.

No you.

That was the first time I felt it.

The distance.

Not measured in miles.

But in absence.

The next day, you sent a message.

“Sorry. I’ve just been busy.”

Simple.

Polite.

Distant.

I stared at it for a long time.

Because something about it felt… final.

Not like an ending.

But like the beginning of one.

I wanted to ask:

“Busy with what?”

“Did I do something?”

“Are we okay?”

But I didn’t.

Because we never asked those kinds of questions.

We were careful.

Too careful.

So I replied:

“No worries :)”

A smiley face.

To soften something that was already breaking.

After that, the space between us grew.

Slowly.

Then all at once.

Messages became shorter.

Less frequent.

Less… us.

Until one day—

They stopped.

Completely.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

Just silence.

I told myself I should reach out.

Say something.

Anything.

But what do you say to someone you were never officially with?

What right do you have to ask why they left—

When they were never really yours?

So I didn’t.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

Your chat moved further down the list.

Buried under newer conversations.

New names.

New distractions.

But I never deleted it.

I couldn’t.

Because deleting it felt like admitting it was over.

And we were never good at endings.

Only unfinished things.

Sometimes, late at night, I open it again.

Scroll up.

Read the old messages.

The jokes.

The almost-confessions.

The things we never said.

And for a moment—

It feels like you’re still there.

Like if I just wait—

The three dots will appear again.

Typing…

And maybe this time—

We won’t stop.

But the screen stays still.

Quiet.

And I realize something I wish I understood back then:

We weren’t separated by distance.

We were separated by hesitation.

And sometimes—

That’s a gap no one ever crosses.