I can hold the line.
Not from weakness. Not from desperation. But from that quiet place where the heart circles, waiting for permission to land.
She has gone distant, and I feel it. There is no soft way to name the space between us. But then she answers, and there it is again—that warmth. Small, steady, enough to reach me. Enough to remind me why I have not let go.
So I stay patient.
I keep becoming. I let the silence teach me grace. I let the wanting make me honest, not reckless. I do not chase what should come freely, and I do not demand what time may still be shaping.
Still, I want her close.
Not as an idea. Not as some passing ache. I want the real thing—the nearness, the laughter, the quiet pull of her, the feeling of being met without distance.
For now, I wait with open hands.
Heart awake. Feet planted. Eyes on the horizon.
And if time brings her nearer, I will meet her with everything genuine in me.
If it does not, I will still know I loved with patience, with restraint, and with a heart that did not turn cold just because it had to wait.
Some things are worth the distance.
She feels like one of them.
