I thought—
  as days passed,
  as routine settled in,
  as normalcy took hold,

  missing her would soften,
  fade quietly like morning mist.

I thought—
  each day apart
  would chip away at the ache,
  turning distance into acceptance,

  longing into something manageable…

But I was wrong.

Every day is thicker,
             heavier,

  like molasses pouring slow,
  coating everything in sweetness and sorrow,

  each second…

  a stubborn reminder that distance isn't fading—

It's deepening.

The more routine returns,
  the clearer it becomes,
  that there's now a shape in my days

  carved exactly for her.

And the longer I'm away,
  the louder this truth echoes:

Missing her isn't getting easier.

It's just becoming the only thing that feels certain.

But even now,
  within this certainty,
  lies another quiet truth—

  that distance is just temporary,

  and each heavy second is one second closer to her.

So I'll carry this ache—
  not as a burden,
  but as proof:

  that some feelings never fade,
  some connections never weaken,

  and the space between us—

  only makes the return that much sweeter.