There is a peculiar kind of missing someone who isn't gone.
They're present, and yet they're not.
They're close enough for you to hear their voice, and yet somehow, they're still too far.
You talk to them and, somehow, you still miss them.
Perhaps distance isn't always measured in miles.
Sometimes it is measured in words you almost say, footsteps you almost take, and a goodnight that stays quietly inside you.
Nothing is wrong. That's the confusing part.
There was warmth when our paths crossed.
There was laughter.
There were little moments I wanted to keep.
Yet somewhere between being grateful for what I had and wishing for just a little more, I became afraid of my own wanting.
Our proximity is our distance.
I wanted to close that gap.
I didn't.
I wanted to say, I missed you.
I didn't.
I was afraid of saying too much with too little.
Maybe restraint isn't the absence of feeling.
Maybe it is holding something gently enough that I don't have to squeeze it just to prove that it's there.
So tonight, I will let the silence be our lullaby.
I will whisper into the air, “I missed you. Goodnight."
And perhaps my whisper will find its way across this strange little distance between us.
Perhaps, somehow, you'll feel that you are missed by someone only a few meters away.
