The distance doomed us from the beginning. Not just the miles, but the silence stretched between us, cold and unrelenting, like winter air between hands that once held warmth. You were a lighthouse, and I was a ship adrift, you showed me the way, but I was never meant to reach you. Every call felt like a prayer cast into a void, your voice flickering like candlelight, first dim, then gone. Your texts sit saved like sacred love letters, scriptures I read in the dark, pretending that longing alone could be the foundation for a life. But space grew teeth. It started small, gnawing at the little things: your laugh echoing in the still of night, your touch when words failed, your breath against my skin as you slept beside me. Then you began to fade, like a photograph left too long in the sun, still beautiful, still bright, but every glance brought more blur, especially in the places I needed you most. I keep reaching, but my hands close around air. You can’t kiss a memory, can’t build a future on a signal that always drops. So here I lie, not with anger, not with closure, just the quiet understanding that distance was always the silent killer.