now what?

Writing this, I’m sitting in the window seat of a delayed plane, wishing I were eager for it to take off. I’m not, though, something about simply idling in your city brings me comfort. I sit here, leaving your city for the first time, waiting to launch into a new chapter of life. Yet, I live in the same town with the same friends and all the same routines. Why does it feel so strange this time? Why are my tears suddenly a new recipe of joy and sadness? Why is this time so different? 

This time, I don’t have you.

I wake, and in place of your voice is a chime that makes me jump:

Good morning! Only 2 more weeks. 

There it is, the salt of joyous and aching tears. I wash my face and brush my teeth facing the frame that houses a memory of you and I. A memory of a time so sweet, the time when “I’m on my way” meant a two-minute ride to your front door. A time when “come over” was a quick stop on your drive home. The times when we met and we celebrated, where we learned the ways of each other. The time I fell in love for the last time. 

We knew this was coming.

Now what?

It’s funny because neither of us saw this coming. Us. Neither of us even wanted this. Until one day, it seemed like all we ever knew. Before our first date, my mother said to me, “You never know which first will be your last.” I didn’t think much of it at the time, just another piece of advice while I finished up my makeup. But now I understand her words more clearly than ever. Now, her words are a gentle reminder to take it all in. Because there are very few times in your life when it all aligns so perfectly. Not love at first sight or soulmates or anything seen in movies. But true luck. Not because he was perfect, or she was perfect, but because in that exact moment, every decision you’ve made, every flaw you have, has now combined and led you to that exact moment. All of the separation has now mended the two beings together. 

Now what?

I wake up to a chime, wash my face, and brush my teeth, eyeing that photo of us. For a moment, I wished things were different, that there wasn’t so much distance, then I stopped. I reflect on all of the firsts that have become lasts, not out of loss, but out of love. A choice made despite the miles that force our whispers to be texts, our sights a photo, and creates a countdown in our minds. Over time, the words of my mother echo, and you quietly become something I simply don’t want to lose. It doesn’t have to be so scary, so heavy. The eyes of others soften at the words “long-distance.” The quiet assumption that it is something we’ll soon outgrow, and sometimes, I do wonder if we are naive to think that at our age, we won’t.

Now what?

But then I remember, it isn’t about proving anyone wrong, or creating something to please others. We are young, but we aren’t careless. This isn’t a guess, it’s a choice. One we make, over and over, with every morning chime. That’s not naive.

Now what?

Now, I’ve landed. Back in my town with my routines, living a life that looks the same, but feels so different. A life where my days are lined with the presence of your absence, somewhere you once were. I find comfort in the countdown. While it’s not the way I’d choose if it were in my control, it’s what we have now. And that’s more than enough.

So next time I sit in the window seat of a plane, watching your town shrink beneath me, the ache won’t be as loud. I will carry more certainty, more peace. Because this isn’t the end of anything. It’s different, and it’s how I love you now.