The world split again.
Different countries. Different skies. Different hours of light filtering through their windows — and yet, somehow, they felt more intertwined than they ever had in the same room.
Distance didn't weaken them. It refined them.
Their days began and ended with each other's voices.
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For him, mornings started with the soft familiarity of her presence through a call. A sleepy greeting carried through speakers. The warmth of her tone, the quiet rhythm of her breathing in the background as he prepared for work. Her voice alone steading him. Then the routine — commute, responsibility, structure — all while her messages appeared like small beams of warmth between tasks.
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For her, the days unfolded in quiet creation. Online presence. Creative work. Edits, recordings, imagined futures. She carried him with her through every moment, a permanent tab open in her heart as she waited for the turn of his key in the door — even if that door was hundreds of miles away.
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Evenings were sacred.
He would return home and instantly become they.
Soft headphones. Familiar tone. A space opening where they both could exhale.
They talked about their day — the small frustrations, the quiet victories, the moments they wished the other had been there for. He prepared food while she kept him company, her voice a gentle thread weaving through the clink of utensils and the hum of his kitchen. He unwound. She settled in.
Afterward, they stayed together in their own way — watching something together, playing a game, sharing reactions, laughter spilling easily across the distance. Sometimes the calls grew quieter, not from disconnection but comfort. The kind of silence where presence was still felt, where simply existing together was enough.
They fell asleep together when they could — not in perfect sync, but in a rhythm uniquely theirs.
More often than not, she drifted off first. Her breathing slowed, softened, while his presence remained steady on the other end of the call, quietly watching over her until sleep fully claimed her. And in the mornings, the roles gently reversed. She, always an early riser, lingered in that half-awake space with him — listening to his slow, sleepy breaths, guarding his rest the way he had guarded hers.
A quiet ritual. A tenderness that whispered of the life they were already learning how to share.
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A life they often spoke about.
Her working from home. Surrounded by gentle quiet and their future pets. The space warm with creativity and peace.
Him commuting to work, but not far. Not like before. He was already applying for new jobs closer to the home he lived in — the home that would soon become their home. A life built not only on love, but on careful planning and shared intention.
They painted the picture often. Not as fantasy. But as promise.
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And in between the routines, the longing pulsed.
"I miss you." "I'd give anything just to hold you tonight."
Words spoken softly. Repeated often. Never losing their meaning. That ache kept the spark alive — tender, electric, alive in the waiting.
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Because the waiting had an end.
Three weeks.
Just three.
A countdown murmured between messages and kisses sent through glowing screens. And at the end of those weeks — Christmas. Two full weeks together. Twinkling lights. Warm embraces. Something to hold onto as the year came to rest.
They held each other through screens. Through time zones. Through longing.
And in the quiet patience of distance, love didn't fade.
It learned how to endure.