My fever broke…
     somewhere between reality and those wild,
     tangled dreams—
     the kind that twist around logic,

     turn physics into poetry, bend time back on itself.

I thought it was allergies—
  or maybe just my body
  telling me I’ve been missing you too much,

  reminding me I’m exactly seven days from landing.

But the fever knew better.

I had lost myself in
  Three-Body Problem,
  chasing down impossible orbits,
  a whole season swallowed in one sitting,
  watching universes unfold and fold back,

  worlds dancing on gravity’s knife-edge.

Funny how it felt familiar—
     Us,
     always caught in a quiet orbit,
     carefully balanced,
     never quite falling,

     never quite drifting away.

Fever fading,
      I reach for my phone—
      feeling the distance
      like an itch I couldn’t quite scratch,
      your words slipping through texts,

      quietly reminding me you feel it too—

Each “miss you” increasing gravity,
      pulling just a little harder.

We’re on the edge of everything:
      time,
      longing,
      distance,

      dreams that feel more real than waking.

Meanwhile, our teams teased perfection—
  three wins out of four,
  a near miss,
  a perfect day still elusive,

  the Dodgers coming up short,
  the scoreboard gently laughing at my hope,
  reminding me not every orbit is stable,

  not every lineup finds its rhythm.

Exactly one week out—
    and I’m already leaning forward,
    waiting for the final orbit,
    the perfect alignment,

    the touchdown that brings me back to your side,
    the moment when the distance finally collapses.

One week out—
    and it feels closer
          _and_ further
             than ever.

Still orbiting,
      balancing…

      right on the edge.