Dearest,

Distance is a funny thing when I can imagine you peering over my shoulder as I write, when I can hear your voice through the speaker of my phone, and see your visage on the screen, but I can't hold your hand. I can't hide behind the front door waiting for you to walk in so I can jump out and scare you and you'll laugh instead of scream but it would be okay because I would be with you.

I love you.

I miss you.

I keep imagining the scenario where I buy a plane ticket and fly home to surprise you. You would drop your bags in shock and you would stare in disbelief and I would cry because I would be with you. But every time I look at plane tickets on my phone, I hear your voice whisper in my ear that our time will come and money is tight and not to.

I love you.

I miss you.

The letters on this page are mere symbols of my affection, each word a hug that I would rather give, each dot and dash a moment I would rather spend with you. But I write so that you can have something of me there, a reminder of me, and in hopes that you write back so that I can be reminded too.

I love you.

I miss you.