Some distances are measured in kilometers, but others are measured in longing. There are seasons in life when waiting becomes its own quiet ritual, a calendar marked not by events but by the hope of seeing someone whose presence feels like a small miracle.
There is a particular kind of ache that comes from loving someone you rarely see. You start counting days the way children count down to holidays, except your celebration might last only a few minutes. You rehearse the moment in your mind, imagining the warmth of their voice and the way the world softens when they are near. When the moment finally arrives, it slips through your fingers too quickly, leaving you with a memory you hold onto like a lifeline.
What makes it harder is knowing that somewhere out there, people cross paths with them every day. They see them in ordinary moments, morning routines, casual conversations, passing glances. They grow accustomed to what you consider extraordinary. They forget the privilege of being close. You, on the other hand, never do.
If you had the chance to see them daily, you know you would not grow used to them. Their presence would never become background noise. Your heart would still react as if it were the first time, a quiet flutter, a gentle rush, a reminder that some people enter your life not to blend in but to illuminate it.
So you keep waiting. You hold onto the memory of your last meeting, and you dream of the next. You whisper small prayers into the spaces between your days, asking life to be kind enough to bring them closer. Not someday, but soon.
Some hearts do not simply miss.
They hope.
They endure.
They believe.
