The Distance Between Us

It was only eight in the evening in Jakarta when your name appeared on my screen.

Outside my apartment, the rain had just stopped. Motorcycles moved through the wet streets below, their headlights stretching across the asphalt like lines of melted gold.

In Seoul, it was already ten. Your day was almost over.

You: Still awake?

Her: I am. I was waiting for you to get home.

You: You have to wake up early tomorrow.

Her: Just five minutes.

You: You always say that.

Her: And you always stay.

Five minutes always became an hour.

We talked about things that did not seem important: the lunch you ordered that was too spicy, the delayed train that made you late for work, and the little plant beside your apartment window.

You: I think the plant is dying.

Her: You said that last week.

You: It looks more dramatic now.

Her: Did you water it?

A pause followed.

You: Define “water.”

Her: You forgot again.

You: Only for two days.

Her: Three.

You: Why do you remember everything?

Her: Because someone has to keep you and that plant alive.

You laughed softly.

Your camera was off, but I knew what you looked like. You were probably sitting on the floor beside your bed, still wearing the sweater you used at home. Your hair would be tied loosely behind your head, with several strands falling across your face.

Distance had taught me how to recognize you without seeing you.

I could tell when you were smiling from the way you breathed between words. I knew you were tired when your replies became shorter. I knew you were pretending to be fine whenever you said “I’m okay” too quickly.

You: Was today difficult?

You did not answer immediately.

Her: A little.

You: Do you want to talk about it?

Her: I don’t know where to begin.

You: You can begin with silence. I’m still here.

And so we stayed quiet.

Rainwater continued sliding down my window. Somewhere behind you, a washing machine played a short melody to announce that it had finished.

Neither of us spoke.

Strange as it was, silence with you never felt empty.

It felt like sitting beside someone in the same room, even though more than five thousand kilometres separated us.

After several minutes, you finally took a breath.

Her: I made a mistake during the presentation.

You: What happened?

Her: I used an old number on one of the slides. My manager corrected me in front of everyone.

You: That must have been uncomfortable.

Her: Everyone was looking at me.

You: Did the presentation fail?

Her: No.

You: Did the company collapse?

Her: No.

You: Did Seoul disappear from the map?

Her: Stop.

You: Then it was one mistake.

Her: It didn’t feel like one mistake.

You: I know.

Your voice became quieter.

Her: Sometimes I feel like everyone there is better than me.

You: They’re not.

Her: You don’t know them.

You: I know you.

There was another silence.

You: One wrong number does not erase all the work you did.

Her: I know that.

You: Do you?

Her: Not yet.

You: Then I’ll remind you tomorrow.

Her: What about the day after tomorrow?

You: I’ll remind you again.

Her: And next week?

You: As many times as necessary.

You did not say anything for a moment.

Then I heard a small laugh.

Her: You’re annoying.

You: But useful.

Her: Occasionally.

You: I’ll accept that.

---

Long-distance love was built from ordinary moments.

It was not only airport goodbyes, expensive plane tickets, or dramatic promises beneath departure screens.

Most of it happened through small notifications.

You: Good morning. Don’t forget your umbrella.

Her: It isn’t raining here.

You: It will rain at four.

Her: Since when are you a Korean weather expert?

You: Since you started forgetting your umbrella.

Sometimes it was a photograph of breakfast.

Sometimes it was a voice message recorded while one of us walked to work.

Sometimes it was a photograph of the sky.

You sent me pale winter mornings from Seoul, where the buildings looked blue beneath the cold light. I sent you Jakarta sunsets filled with orange clouds, tangled electrical wires, and silhouettes of palm trees.

Her: Our skies look completely different today.

You: Same planet.

Her: That sounded less romantic than you expected.

You: I panicked.

Her: Try again.

You: Different skies, same person I’m thinking about.

Her: Better.

You saved that message.

I pretended not to notice.

---

Every Sunday, we kept one simple promise: we would cook the same meal in our separate kitchens.

It was your idea.

Her: We need something that feels like a real date.

You: Video calls are real dates.

Her: You spend half of them answering emails.

You: I’m a very busy and important person.

Her: Last night, you spent forty minutes watching videos of cats falling off chairs.

You: That was research.

Her: We’re cooking together on Sunday.

Finding the same ingredients in Jakarta and Seoul was harder than expected.

When you could not find Indonesian sweet soy sauce, you ordered three bottles online and complained about the delivery cost for two days.

When I tried making Korean pancakes, mine came out looking like something that had survived a traffic accident.

Her: Is that supposed to be a pancake?

You: It tastes better than it looks.

Her: That’s what people say when food looks dangerous.

You: Show me yours.

You lifted your plate toward the camera.

Your pancake was perfectly round and golden.

You: I suddenly don’t want to do this anymore.

Her: You suggested cooking together.

You: I didn’t know you were going to be good at everything.

Her: You should have done your research before falling in love with me.

You: It was already too late.

You smiled and looked away from the camera.

Even after all those months, I could still make you shy.

---

One Sunday, we tried making soup.

Mine was too salty. Yours barely tasted of anything.

Her: Maybe they would taste right if we mixed them together.

You: Like us?

Her: Don’t start.

You: You gave me the opening.

You laughed.

The sound broke apart over the internet connection. Half of it disappeared, then returned a second later.

Still, it made my small kitchen feel warmer.

I imagined you sitting across from me instead of appearing on a laptop screen.

I imagined reaching over to taste your soup. I imagined you stealing vegetables from my bowl. I imagined washing the dishes together while arguing about whose recipe had failed more badly.

Then the screen froze.

Your smile became a collection of blurry pixels.

You: Can you hear me?

No answer.

You: Hello?

The call ended.

The kitchen became silent again.

There were days when the distance felt almost invisible.

And there were days when it felt like the only thing in the room.

---

Our relationship did not become easier simply because we loved each other.

There were missed calls, tired replies, forgotten plans, and conversations that ended before either of us was ready.

One Friday night, we planned to watch a movie together.

I arrived home early, prepared snacks, and placed my laptop beside the bed. You said you would call at eight.

At eight fifteen, there was no message.

At eight forty, I checked whether you had read my last text.

At nine thirty, the snacks were gone, but the movie had not started.

Almost two hours later, your message appeared.

Her: I’m sorry. The meeting ran late.

You: It’s okay.

Her: You sound upset.

You: I said it’s okay.

Her: That doesn’t mean it is.

I stared at the screen.

I knew you were working hard. I knew your job was demanding. I knew your life could not pause because I was waiting in another country.

But understanding someone did not always prevent disappointment.

You: I just wish you had told me earlier.

Her: I didn’t have time.

You: It takes ten seconds to send a message.

Her: I said I was sorry.

You: And I said it was okay.

Her: Stop saying that when you don’t mean it.

The call that night lasted only six minutes.

You were exhausted. I was hurt. Neither of us knew how to say what we actually needed.

We went to sleep carrying words we should have said and words we should not have.

---

The following morning, there was no usual message from you.

No photograph of coffee.

No complaint about the weather.

No reminder that I had a meeting at ten.

By lunchtime, the silence felt heavier than the argument.

I opened our conversation several times.

I typed:

You: Are you still angry?

Then deleted it.

I typed:

You: I’m sorry.

Then deleted that too.

At two in the afternoon, a photograph appeared on my screen.

It showed the little plant beside your apartment window. One of its leaves had begun turning yellow.

Beside it was a handwritten note.

I’m sorry I made you feel forgotten. You were waiting, and I should have remembered that waiting is also an act of love.

I read the sentence twice.

Then I called you.

Her: Hello?

You: I’m sorry too.

Her: For what?

You: For pretending I was fine and expecting you to understand what I refused to say.

Her: I should have sent a message.

You: Yes, you should have.

Her: You didn’t have to agree so quickly.

You: I’m practising honest communication.

You laughed softly.

It was the first warm sound between us since the night before.

Her: Are we okay?

You: We’re learning.

Her: Is that a yes?

You: It’s better than yes.

Distance did not make our relationship perfect.

It made honesty necessary.

There was no hand to hold after an argument. No shoulder to lean on. No quiet drive home together.

All we had were words.

So we learned to use them carefully.

---

Winter arrived in Seoul.

You called me one morning before sunrise.

Her: Wake up.

You: What happened?

Her: Look at your phone.

You switched on the video.

Outside your window, snow was falling.

It collected along the rooftops, on parked cars, and on the branches of the trees below your apartment.

You: Is this your first snow?

Her: Yes.

You: You sound like a child.

Her: I am a child today.

You put on your coat and carried the phone outside.

The image shook as you ran down the stairs.

You: Be careful.

Her: You sound like my mother.

You: Your mother is a wise woman.

You stood beneath a streetlight while snow fell into your hair.

You held out your hand, catching several flakes before they disappeared against your skin.

Her: I wish you were here.

The happiness in your voice became quieter.

You: Me too.

Her: We would walk around and buy something warm.

You: You would complain that your hands were freezing.

Her: And you would give me your gloves.

You: Then my hands would freeze.

Her: That’s part of being romantic.

You: That sounds inefficient.

Her: You’re ruining the moment.

You smiled, but your eyes looked sad.

Her: How many days until I come home?

You: One hundred and twelve.

Her: That still sounds impossible.

You: Then don’t count days.

Her: What should we count?

You: Sundays.

Her: How many Sundays?

You: Sixteen.

You looked up at the falling snow.

Her: Sixteen soups.

You: Hopefully sixteen better soups.

Her: No promises.

---

We began measuring time differently.

Not in days, but in Sunday meals.

In video calls.

In photographs of the sky.

In completed weeks.

In the bottles of shampoo you finished in Seoul and the books I completed in Jakarta.

Then, finally, we bought the ticket.

The booking confirmation appeared in both our inboxes.

Her: It’s real.

You: It’s real.

Her: I’m coming home.

You: You’re coming home.

You created a countdown on your phone.

Forty-two days.

---

That night, Jakarta was warm and loud. Seoul was preparing for another cold morning.

Her: How many days left?

You: Forty-two.

Her: That’s a long time.

You: We’ve already made it through one hundred and eighty.

Her: So we’re pretty amazing?

You: Very amazing.

Her: What are you going to do when you see me?

You: Hug you.

Her: That’s all?

You: I prepared a speech.

Her: You did not.

You: It’s very emotional.

Her: Tell me now.

You: No. You have to hear it at the airport.

Her: I’ll probably cry.

You: I’ll probably forget every word.

Her: Then don’t make a speech.

You: What should I do?

Her: Just be there.

You: I will.

Her: See you at the airport.

You: I’ll spot you first.

Her: We’ll see about that.

---

The final forty-two days passed more slowly than the previous one hundred and eighty.

We counted everything.

The last four Sunday meals.

The last three Monday mornings.

The last delivery that arrived at your apartment.

The last time you bought coffee near your office.

The last night you fell asleep while I was still speaking.

You packed your suitcase during our video calls.

Her: Should I bring this sweater?

You: You never wear it.

Her: I might wear it in Jakarta.

You: It’s thirty degrees here.

Her: Maybe somewhere has strong air conditioning.

You: Leave the sweater.

Her: You don’t understand fashion.

You brought the sweater.

---

The night before your flight, neither of us could sleep.

Her: What if the flight is delayed?

You: Then I’ll wait.

Her: What if my suitcase is lost?

You: Then we’ll buy new clothes.

Her: What if you don’t recognise me?

You: I would recognise you anywhere.

Her: You’ve only seen me through a screen for seven months.

You: I know the way you walk.

Her: You’ve never seen me walk properly.

You: I know the way you look around when you’re searching for someone.

Her: How?

You: You turn your head twice to the left before checking the right.

You became quiet.

Her: You really do remember everything.

You: Because someone has to.

---

Your plane took off the following morning.

For the first time in months, I could not contact you.

No messages.

No photographs.

No small green circle beside your name.

I followed the flight on a tracking application, watching a tiny plane symbol cross the map between South Korea and Indonesia.

When the plane entered Indonesian airspace, I left for the airport.

I arrived almost three hours early.

You had told me not to.

I did it anyway.

---

The arrival hall was crowded.

Families waited behind the barrier. Drivers held signs with names written in thick black letters. Children pressed their faces against the glass while airport announcements echoed overhead.

Every time the automatic doors opened, my heart moved before I did.

A businessman walked out.

Then an elderly couple.

Then a group of students carrying matching suitcases.

No sign of you.

I checked the flight information even though I had already checked it twelve times.

LANDED

BAGGAGE CLAIM

ARRIVED

My phone vibrated.

Her: I have my suitcase.

You: I’m near the exit.

Her: Don’t move.

You: Why?

Her: I want to find you.

The doors opened again.

Several people walked through at once.

For a moment, I could not see past them.

Then I saw you.

You were wearing the long beige coat you had shown me during a video call. The sweater you refused to leave behind was tied around your suitcase.

Your hair was slightly messy after the flight. One hand held the suitcase handle, while the other carried your phone.

You looked tired.

You looked nervous.

You looked exactly like the person I had missed every day.

You turned your head to the left.

Once.

Twice.

Then you looked to the right.

Your eyes found mine.

Everything around us seemed to move more slowly.

People crossed between us. Suitcase wheels rattled against the floor. Announcements continued above our heads.

But for several seconds, there was only you.

You released your suitcase.

I stepped forward.

Then we ran toward each other.

The speech I had prepared disappeared completely.

Every sentence I had practised during the previous forty-two days was gone.

I did not say anything clever or beautiful.

I simply wrapped my arms around you.

You held me so tightly that I could barely breathe, but I did not want you to loosen your grip.

Her: You said you would spot me first.

You: I did.

Her: I saw you first.

You: That cannot be proven.

You laughed against my shoulder.

This time, the sound did not break apart.

There was no delay.

No frozen screen.

No weak connection.

You were here.

When we finally pulled apart, you touched my face as though you needed to make sure I was real.

Her: You forgot your speech, didn’t you?

You: Completely.

Her: I knew it.

You: I remember one part.

Her: Which part?

I looked at you beneath the bright airport lights.

After more than two hundred days apart, after failed recipes, missed calls, winter mornings, difficult conversations, and endless countdowns, you were finally standing in front of me.

You: Welcome home.

Your eyes filled with tears.

Her: I am home.

---

On our first Sunday together, we cooked soup.

We stood inside the same kitchen, using the same pot.

I added too much salt.

You added too much water.

Her: It still doesn’t taste right.

You: Maybe we’re not supposed to mix our recipes.

Her: Don’t start.

You: You gave me the opening.

You laughed and leaned your head against my shoulder.

For months, I had imagined that moment.

I had imagined your hand reaching for the spoon, your footsteps moving across the kitchen, and your voice filling the room without passing through a speaker.

The soup was terrible.

But we finished every bowl.

Distance had taught us that being present did not always mean standing in the same room.

Sometimes, being present was a message before an important meeting.

Sometimes, it was a photograph of the sky from another country.

Sometimes, it was staying awake five minutes longer so that someone far away did not have to feel alone.

But as you stood beside me, washing the dishes while quietly singing a song I had heard hundreds of times through my phone, I understood something else.

Love could survive separate cities.

It could survive different time zones, unstable connections, missed plans, and difficult days.

But being together was still worth every moment we had waited.

Among millions of people living beneath different skies, we had continued choosing each other.

And when the distance finally ended, neither of us had to search for long.