{ XI – International Exclusive }
You left one of your hoodies here—the gray one with the fleece lining on the inside.
Honestly, I was going to tell you. You wore it nearly every day you were here, so clearly it’s one you’re attached to. But I just can’t bring myself to tell you it’s here, and I hope you don’t realize it’s missing. If you do, please don’t ask for it back. Not because it’d be a hassle to send it back to you—even if it would be, I’d send it to you the moment you asked—but because I know you have others, and I think I need this one a little more than you do. At least for right now.
I’m not going to wear it, though. It’s much too big for me, and if I put it on, I’d probably look ridiculous for some reason or another, but that’s not why I want it.
When you’re on the road, we spend weeks living different lives. You experience so many things, meet so many people, do so many interesting things that you probably can’t even remember all of it. Every time you come around for a visit, you’re shaped a little differently because of it. You smell a little different, too.
Sometimes, it’s not the most pleasant scent. I know you think I can’t tell that you’ve been smoking on the road, but every time you come home, it’s impossible not to notice. I don’t say anything, though. I really want to—that stuff is going to kill you, and I need you around for as long as possible—but, at least for now, I let it go.
That scent is an honest glimpse into the life I don’t get to live with you. The life where we’re separated, only able to talk when time permits it, and what a strict warden it can be. And I know everything you tell me is put through a filter. You try so hard not to upset me. It drives me crazy, but I know why you do it, and I appreciate it.
So when you’re not here, when I can’t talk to you, I can hold onto it, close my eyes, and imagine I’m there with you. Or, I can imagine you back here with me, laying on the bed, letting me cling to you like I’m trying to keep you from flying out of my grasp. But no matter how tight I hold, I’ll have to let go eventually. I know I can’t keep you. You are mine, but you are yours more so than that.
There’s nothing wrong with the term long-distance relationship, but it feels wrong; too simplistic. Distance can be quantified in numerous ways, and while you’re gone, it’s something I do to an obsessive degree.
Mileage is the first thing that comes to most people’s minds when they think of long-distance relationships, but there’s so much more to it. How long are we going to be apart this time, and if you don’t know, how long until we get to know?
And when I know you’re coming, counting becomes so exciting. I start by counting everything from months to minutes, and slowly but surely, I stop having to count each one of those units of time as the day draws nearer. But the moment we meet, another countdown starts. It’s an inverse of the last in every way, and even if it fills me with dread, it’s so hard to ignore.
We start with weeks worth of time together, but before I know it, weeks become days, days become hours, hours become minutes. Minutes become mile markers, mile markers become exits, exits become street names. Streets become terminals, and terminals become steps. And steps become precious seconds spent holding each other, waiting for the other to pull away because neither of us want to.
But we have to. That’s the only way to start the count over. And it hurts so much, especially when we don’t know how long it is. We never know if this is our last countdown until it’s over. That’s as reassuring as it is terrifying.
The improbability of us meeting and existing together is so astronomically slim that not even I can properly measure it. While I’m not superstitious, that makes me feel so lucky; and yet I feel cursed. Those same circumstances that led us to meeting are the same ones that have put us in this situation.
But that’s okay. You’re doing what you love, and I couldn’t be happier for you. One day, we’ll figure out how to close the distance between us for good. I haven’t the slightest clue of how to start on that, but it will happen.
Sometimes, when I think about you, there’s a tug I feel in my chest—somewhere around my right pectoral—and it pulls so hard it hurts. It’s like that’s where our bond is held, and when I think of you, it tightens. It tries to pull us together.
But when we’re too far apart, there’s nothing I can do to give that bond any slack. So, instead, I lay on the bed and hold onto your hoodie. And sometimes, that’s enough to make it hurt a little less.
So, until we meet again, please don’t ask for your hoodie back.