There's something about the quiet moments between us that both terrify and electrify me. They're rare—fleeting seconds when words fail, and the weight of everything unsaid feels like it could crack the air.
It happened one night, late, when her voice on the phone felt different. She wasn't her usual self, the warmth in her laugh replaced by something colder, something distant. I knew it wasn't anger, but it wasn't the comfort I'd grown so used to.
"Is everything okay?" I asked, my heart pounding even though I tried to sound calm.
"Yeah," she said after a pause, too long for me to believe her. "I'm just tired."
But it wasn't just tiredness. I could feel it through the static, through the silence that stretched longer than it ever had before. Something was off.
It's in these moments that my mind runs wild. I don't just imagine what's wrong—I create entire stories, whole realities where I lose her, where the distance between us becomes a canyon too wide to cross. What if she's pulling away? What if the weight of loving me—the scars, the insecurities, the baggage—is too much for her?
I try to shake the thoughts, but they grip me, relentless.
"I'm here, you know," I whisper, unsure if she even needs to hear it. "You can tell me anything."
The silence on the other end feels like forever, and in that forever, I feel like I'm free-falling, like I'm teetering on the edge of something I can't control. My stomach churns, and I find myself gripping the phone tighter, as though holding onto it will keep her from slipping away.
Finally, she sighs. "I know. I just... I've been feeling a lot lately."
Her voice is soft, like she's afraid of saying too much, and it sends a shiver down my spine. I want to press her, to demand she tell me what's wrong, but I don't. I know her well enough to know that rushing her will only push her further into herself. So, I wait.
And waiting is its own kind of torture.
In those moments, every vulnerability I've ever shared with her feels exposed. I think about all the ways she's seen me at my worst, the nights I've sobbed into the phone, telling her things I've never told anyone. Did I overwhelm her? Did I scare her away with my darkness?
"Talk to me," I say finally, my voice quieter than I intended.
She hesitates again, and the pause feels like a knife twisting in my chest. Then, slowly, she begins to speak. She talks about her own fears, her own struggles. About how hard it is to be apart, how much she wishes she could be here with me, how sometimes she feels like she's failing at being what I need.
It hits me like a freight train. I've been so caught up in my own worries that I never stopped to think about hers. She's human too—she's allowed to have doubts and fears, even if they're about us.
"I feel like I'm not enough sometimes," she admits, her voice breaking just slightly.
"Not enough?" I repeat, the words foreign and wrong when applied to her. "You're everything."
The tension in the air shifts. It's still heavy, but it's no longer suffocating. It's the kind of heaviness that comes with truth, with being seen fully for the first time.
"Can I tell you something?" I ask, my heart pounding again, but for a different reason this time.
"Always."
"I'm scared too. All the time. Scared that I'm too much, or not enough. Scared that one day you'll realize I'm not worth the effort."
Her breath catches, and I swear I can hear the tears in her voice when she responds. "You're worth everything."
The relief is overwhelming, but it doesn't erase the tension entirely. Because the truth is, love isn't easy. It's messy and complicated and sometimes terrifying. But in that moment, I realize it's also worth it.
There's something exhilarating about being on this edge together, about facing the unknown side by side—even if we're miles apart.
A Whisper of What's to Come
As the conversation settles into something softer, I can't shake the feeling that this isn't the last time we'll find ourselves in this space—this fragile balance between fear and love, between doubt and faith.
But for now, I choose to hold onto her words, to let them anchor me.
Because if love is a cliff, then I'm ready to jump. And I know she'll be there to catch me.
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Two hearts on one journey 🫂🌎
Romance"Two Hearts, One Journey" is a personal, emotional story told from my perspective, exploring the highs and lows of my long-distance relationship. This book isn't a regular back-and-forth narrative-it's a love letter, raw and intimate, reflecting my...
