Measured the Distance Between Us in Heartbeats

Measured the Distance Between Us in Heartbeats

Word count: ~870

Style: Romantic, poetic, metaphor-rich prose

Theme: Long-distance love and emotional distance

I counted the seconds at first.

Then the hours.

Then the time zones.

But eventually, I measured the distance between us in heartbeats.

Because clocks don’t understand how you can be awake at 3:17 a.m.

simply because you miss someone so loud it silences everything else.

We used to sleep in rhythm.

Your breath was the baseline.

My heartbeat was the melody.

And in the quiet of the night, we made a symphony no one else could hear.

But now—

Now you are cities away.

Countries, even.

Airports and oceans and obligations stretch between us.

And yet, I can still feel the echo of you somewhere beneath my ribs.

Every time I wake up with your name on my mind and your voice in my inbox, I feel it.

A subtle thump.

A flutter.

A reminder.

I’ve learned to read silence the way some people read sheet music.

The one-second pause before your reply means you're distracted.

The two-minute delay means you're tired, but trying.

No response after three hours is a storm on the horizon.

And I hold my breath, waiting for lightning.

Sometimes, love feels like a Morse code.

Long pauses and short bursts.

Messages sent with no guarantee of return.

You always said our love wasn’t measured in proximity.

“It’s not the nearness that matters,” you whispered once,

“It’s the gravity.”

And I believed you—still do.

Because what else can explain how your absence feels heavier than your presence ever did?

Some nights, I lie on the floor and press my ear to the boards,

as if the earth might carry a vibration from wherever you are.

I imagine your footsteps brushing city streets I’ve never walked.

I imagine you humming a song I’ll never hear.

I imagine you reaching for me in your sleep, forgetting for a moment that I’m not there.

We dream in tandem, I think.

Your 4 a.m. is my 7 p.m.

Your sunrise is my twilight.

Our hearts like twin lighthouses, pulsing across the dark sea,

hoping the other sees the glow.

I wrote you letters I’ll never send.

They are folded inside my pillowcase.

Inside my chest.

They say things like:

“I miss the way your eyes softened when you looked at me.”

“The bed remembers your shape.”

“I don’t want to be brave anymore. I just want to be close.”

And sometimes I add,

“Don’t forget the sound of my heartbeat. I haven’t stopped calling for you.”

There was a time we could trace each other's veins like road maps.

Knew every breath, every blink.

Now I read your messages like telegrams from a war-torn country.

Carefully.

Lovingly.

Afraid I’ll misinterpret the tone, or miss a sign.

But still, you come back to me.

In pixelated video calls and voice notes sent from train stations.

In photos of sunsets I never saw.

In the tiny, sacred seconds when your voice stumbles,

and I know you ache for me too.

Love becomes a language of half-said things,

of longing dressed up as routine.

We say “goodnight” but mean “don’t drift too far.”

We say “talk soon” but mean “stay.”

And though I ache—God, I ache—

I would choose this distance over absence.

This ache over emptiness.

This heartbeat-laced waiting over silence.

Because I know you.

And you are not gone.

Just somewhere else.

Still tethered to me by invisible threads that pulse in time.

I’ve stopped counting the miles.

I’ve stopped fearing the silence.

Now, I close my eyes, place my hand to my chest,

and wait for the soft, steady reminder:

You are still with me.

Even when you're not.

Especially when you're not.

Because love—real love—

is not measured in footsteps or photographs or even phone calls.

It is measured in heartbeats.

And mine still whispers your name

with every single one.