It's been a year.
A year
full of tears, hot showers, hopeless evenings, liberated mornings and difficult self-work.
It's been a year.
A year of distance, of two lives lived in complete separation on two sides of the world. Months of meeting new people, getting new jobs, seeing new sights. Days of speaking to strangers that we now consider as friends, hours of brand new thoughts, minutes spent not thinking about each other.
A complete year of not sharing life with you. Of you having a brand new reality, hours ahead of me, your eyes adjusted to a new light, new atmosphere, new climate.
Yet, a year of frequent messages that only turned to sporadic around two months ago.
A sign of withdrawal or a sign of living this experience to the fullest before you come home.
Maybe two months of doubt, of fear, as to what's about to happen once you place your feet in a place of frozen past, where time has stopped for our dual experience of life, waiting to be (hopefully) resumed with your presence next to mine.
Maybe two months of detachment, of time you spent realising you don't want us to continue as a two.
This year has been transformative for me.
A year of self-worth, confidence and independence.
A time I spent realising I am enough. A time I opened myself to new people, new experiences and joy.
I have waited for a year. I am still waiting. But I have began to detach myself from depending on your choice once you're home. Because although my love for you is endless, I refuse to put my life on hold beyond that point.
