From Coast to Coast

There is one hour between us,
but lately,
I wonder if there is more.

You tell me stories from your side of the map,
nights with friends,
laughter filling rooms I have never seen,
little adventures that become stories
I get to hear afterward.

And I am happy for you.

Truly.

I want you surrounded by people who love you.
I want you laughing until your cheeks hurt,
making memories,
living a life that feels full.

But somewhere between your stories
and my smile,
a quieter thought slips in:

Do you ever wish I were there too?

Not instead of them.
Not taking their place.
Just beside you.

Sitting close enough
to understand the joke before you explain it.
Walking home with you after everyone says goodbye.
Becoming part of the stories
instead of only hearing them.

Maybe that is what distance does.

It turns ordinary things
into things you ache for.

A dinner.
A lazy afternoon.
A hand reaching for yours
without a screen between them.

And lately our routines have been shifting.

Slowly.

Nothing dramatic enough to call a storm,
just little movements in the tide
that make someone who falls hard
start watching the water.

So I become cautious.

I wonder whether I should say less,
dream smaller,
hold pieces of myself back
until I know where your heart is standing.

Because I tell you what I want.

I tell you what makes me feel loved.
I tell you what I imagine for us,
and then I try to prove those words
through the way I show up.

But you speak differently.

You tell me what you need
when a boundary needs protecting.
You tell me what you feel
when the moment pulls it from you.

But when I look toward tomorrow
and ask what you see,
sometimes the horizon stays quiet.

You remind me of the miles.

New York.
Texas.

One hour.

Thousands of miles.

A plane ticket where a subway ride should be.

And I know.

I know the distance is real.

But sometimes I wish
you would talk about the distance
like something we could cross,
instead of something we must keep pointing toward.

Because I am not asking you
to pretend it is easy.

I am asking you to imagine
what happens if we really try.

Not halfway.
Not only when convenient.
Not only when longing becomes too loud to ignore.

Really try.

Because I already am.

Maybe that is what scares me most.

I fall hard.

My heart has never learned
how to casually care.

Give it something beautiful
and suddenly it is building blueprints.

Trips we have not booked.
Cities we have not explored.
Mornings we have not shared.

A question asking,
Will you be my boyfriend?

Another question years later
with a ring trembling between nervous fingers.

A home.

A marriage.

A life.

I know.

I am several chapters ahead.

You may still be reading the page we are on.

So I keep reminding myself
that dreaming is not a promise,
and hope cannot make decisions
for two people.

But I wish sometimes
you would dream aloud with me.

Not promise me forever.

Just show me that somewhere inside you,
there is a version of tomorrow
where I exist too.

Because from my side of the map,
I can see you.

Past the hour.
Past the flights.
Past the routines slowly changing around us.

I can see something worth trying for.

And maybe love between two time zones
is not about pretending
the distance does not exist.

Maybe it is about two people
looking at the same impossible stretch of land
and saying,

I know how far this is.

Come toward me anyway.

I have already started walking.

I just need to know.
that somewhere,
one hour behind me,

you are walking too.