In the realm of tardy apologies and patient joy, I yearn to converse. Let’s delve into November evenings, perched on the 30th floor of a breathing skyscraper. Let’s explore cities that never sleep and love that endures, a testament to its endurance. Allow me to share the story of solitude that engulfs you amidst a bustling street, surrounded by sky-piercing edifices and a cacophony of ceaseless movement.
We stand miles apart, mere waypoints on a Google Map that fumbles for directions to your abode. The twinkle of your nose pin synchronizing with the illumination of thousands of windows, projecting LED constellations into the nocturnal canvas. Can you grasp the sensation, my love, of being lost amidst a marketplace teeming with shops, yet not knowing which path to tread? It’s a desolate place, my love, a realm distant from you and all that once felt like home.
The echoes of your laughter reverberate in phone calls, across open rooftops. Brakes screech as high-end cars fade into the background. Stitched smiles adorn the faces of corporate denizens emerging from towering office buildings. Red traffic lights flicker, exhausted by their futile attempts to halt the ceaseless flow. Ola Cabs cancel every ride from my city to yours, elongating the divide.
But the pain, my love, is none other than this — the space between your palms and my fingertips, the distance spanning your head and my shoulders. Your smile, truncated on a Google Duo call compared to our last in-person encounter. It’s heart-wrenching, the way I nearly call out your name, only to be jolted by your absence. The way I almost share a meme with you at the dining table before realizing I dine alone. We are nearly here, and then, abruptly, we are not.
Let’s converse about everything that nearly exists, a realm of almosts and yet, in the end, nothing at all. The city lights gradually fade into the darkness at 3 AM, while our screens linger, helplessly consulting Google Maps, which solemnly states, “No routes found to this location.”
