Even with our distance

Lanie had always warned me she could never stay long. But as a kid in elementary school, I never fully understood what that meant for someone in a military family.

She was just the new student, standing at the front of the class.

“My name is Lanie; we just moved here.”

At first, I thought she was shy: choosing the seat at the back, keeping her head down, speaking only when spoken to. But it wasn’t shyness; it was fear. Fear of getting attached. Fear of meeting anyone new, because she knew she’d end up leaving anyway. It was no wonder she pushed people away, building quiet boundaries to keep everyone at a distance.

I couldn’t help noticing her: head down, voice soft, sleeves between her teeth, pencils bitten to the eraser.

When I mentioned her to my parents, my mother said, “Be the one who reaches out. Just because it’s temporary doesn’t mean you don’t deserve the good memories.”

So I did, I took every opportunity, whether it was on the playground, lunch or after school.

I introduced myself. “My name is Justin.”

She hesitated, cautious with everything, like opening a box wrapped in layers of tape.

I never knew what to say, so I asked whatever came to mind:

What’s your favorite dinosaur?

How fast can you run?

Do you watch cartoons?

Despite her protests, I kept trying. I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was the way she sat alone. Maybe it was her brand‑new shoes and backpack. Maybe it was the stories she shared. places she’d lived, things she’d seen. She knew so much and had seen more than anyone else our age.

Every day felt like chipping away at marble, revealing the sculpture underneath. Slowly, she let me see the person inside.

We started walking home together. She told me about eating squid, about how people talked differently in other countries.

Soon we visited each other’s houses: playing video games, reading books. She loved adventure novels with a bit of romance.

Unfortunately, before I could get the full reveal. She was set to move. And despite being told over and over it would eventually happen, I was devastated. Distraught. Destroyed. I cried and sulked in my room refusing dinner the day I found out.

We hugged before she left, a long, tight embrace that felt heavier than I expected. My mother gave her parents our address so we could write and stay in touch, but even then, I could feel the distance already forming.

“No matter where you go, I promise I’ll see you again someday,” I told her. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to comfort her or myself.

After she was gone, the school days felt strangely hollow. It took a while to find a new rhythm; new routines, new friends, new ways to fill the time, but nothing fit quite right. My friends were funny, sweet, stubborn in their own ways, but we all lived in the same small world. Lanie’s had always been bigger, stretched across places I could only imagine.

Every day I pestered my parents for the mail update.

Did she write?

Anything for me?

It was months before a letter finally arrived.

Hey Justin,

How are you? I’m good. Just got to a new school, and everyone is so nice.

Please write soon,

Lanie

It was short. completely on brand for her, but I was thrilled. I held the envelope like it was something fragile.

“Be sure to save that letter. Never lose it,” my mom said.

“I won’t. I’ll never lose this.”

I wanted my reply to hold everything that had happened: Garrett flipping off the monkey bars, my parents signing me up for soccer, the meteor shower we watched, even the shark toy I won at the arcade.

We spent months writing back and forth, each of her letters a little longer than the last. We shared the moments that made us laugh or cry, the vacations we took, the new places she moved to. Waiting weeks for a letter was more tense than waiting for new episodes of our favorite shows.

I still remember the day I wrote, I promise to see you again soon.

My mother frowned and told me to erase it.

“You don’t want to get her hopes up. It’s already been some years.”

So, I erased it. But the words were still pressed into the paper. I wondered what she would think if she saw the indent.

By eighth grade, cellphones were all the rage. Little pocket devices that required a whole new language to send a message. They were faster than letters, but harder too. I had to squeeze my thoughts into a tiny box, and only after 9 p.m. so my parents wouldn’t yell about the bill.

We tried calling, but it always felt a little awkward. We’d run out of things to say, fall into long silences, or repeat “I miss you” and talk about the days she used to be here. It wasn’t the same as waiting for a letter. It wasn’t the same as hearing her laugh in person.

At that same time, I met Becca. We became friends after joining soccer, often practicing together after school. By the time we entered our first year of high school, we were close: going off campus for lunch, wandering the shops after school, studying for exams. I had a hunch she liked me.

I didn’t understand my own feelings.

Maybe it was just friendship and I was overthinking. Maybe she wanted something more. But no matter how much time I spent with Becca, Lanie was always there. A quiet presence in the back of my mind, waiting for me to find a moment to reach out.

Between messages from the two of them, I found myself wondering:

What is the difference between friendship and romance?

How do you know?

How do you not hurt someone?

One night I called Lanie.

“Hey… have you ever been asked out?”

“Many times, to be honest.”

“Have you ever said yes?” I tried not to sound too forward.

“No. You know how it is; I’m always moving.” She chuckled. “Maybe once we’ve settled down, I’d consider it.”

I wished she would. Maybe it would make things easier.

“You know… it’s not like we’re dating. You could, if you want.”

“True. I don’t know what I want, to be honest.”

“Take your time. We’re getting closer to the future, y’know.”

“Yeah.”

Later, I asked my mom what she thought, but she only said, “I can’t make that choice for you. You won’t know if it’s right until you make it.”

She was right. So, I messaged Becca and asked if we could meet.

On Saturday, I took her to the local café and explained everything between Lanie and me. I hoped our friendship could continue despite it.

“It’s okay. I understand,” she said.

She always handled things so maturely. The next month she went out with a classmate. Maybe what I told her was the answer she needed. I hoped no tears were shed, and that she could be happy.

I wavered between regret and wondering if I should move forward too.

But with the inclusion of Becca’s boyfriend, our duo turned into a trio. I told Lanie about it all. She said I handled everything very maturely.

By junior year, the phones got smarter. Lanie and I sent each other selfies and snapshots of the places we visited. Hers were always the most interesting: festivals and shrines, kayaking trips, camping under unfamiliar skies. It amazed me how much we both had grown in such a short time.

One afternoon she messaged me saying she was now in Culver City, only about ten hours away. Suddenly, the distance didn’t feel impossible. I saved up my allowance, picked up a part‑time job at the bookstore, and put away every dollar I could. When I finally had enough for a train ticket, I sent her a message telling her I’d come during spring break.

“You can stay at our place; we have an extra futon,” she assured me.

That night, I was too excited to sleep, counting down the days until our meet‑up.

Riding the train alone felt surreal: watching towns blur past the window, switching lines, scrolling through my phone to pass the time. In the quiet moments between stops, my thoughts drifted.

What is she like now?

Am I still holding on to childhood memories, or ready to make new ones?

When I arrived, she was already waiting at the station, bouncing on her toes the moment she spotted me. We hugged. It was a warm, full‑body embrace I didn’t want to let go of. It felt like it was trying to make up for every hug we’d missed over the years. She laughed, jumping up and down with excitement, and I found myself doing the same, the two of us caught in that dizzy, breathless joy of finally being in the same place again.

She wanted to show me everything: the city, the shops, all the places she’d mentioned in her messages, but the trip had worn me out more than I expected. When she noticed me dragging my feet, she squeezed my arm and suggested we head home instead.

Her family’s apartment was warm and lived‑in, her little brother darting around like a pinball. Her parents greeted me with the same friendliness I remembered, and her brother immediately bombarded me with questions about “our relationship,” which she shut down with a shove and an eye roll.

Her room was small but unmistakably hers: rock band posters, stacks of books, little pieces of her life arranged in corners.

“Do you want to take a nap?” she asked gently.

“Actually… just to lay down for a bit,” I admitted.

She laid out a futon, and I sprawled across it while she pulled out a collage book. She flipped through pages filled with photos and memorabilia; vacations, friends, movie tickets, concert stubs, even dried flowers pressed between pages.

All I had brought were the letters she’d written me. Especially the first one.

“Oh gosh, I was so nervous. I didn’t know what to say,” she laughed.

I chuckled. “Honestly, I didn’t either. I just wrote whatever came to mind.”

“Thank you for sticking around,” she murmured.

I sat up. “I’m glad I did.”

She slid down beside me and wrapped her arms around me. I heard a quiet sniffle. “It means so much.”

The next few days were a blur of exploring. Malls, creeks, little corners of the city she wanted to share. It started with her grabbing my arm, and by the end, she was holding my hand.

On the final night of spring break, the flowers were in full bloom. We caught the spring festival, sitting on a hill as fireworks echoed across the sky.

I had waited for this moment. This day, this time. When I could meet her gaze, take her hand, and kiss her.

For a second, neither of us moved. The fireworks lit her face in flashes of pink and gold, and she looked at me the way she used to look at the letters I sent.

Her fingers tightened around mine.

I leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. She closed the distance the last inch herself.

When our lips touched, everything else slipped away. The years of distance, the uncertainty, the ache of waiting… it all softened into something warm and certain. Her hand trembled against my cheek, and I realized mine was trembling too.

It was worth every second.

Leaving was painful, but I had my home to return to, and she was still searching for hers.

At the station, we held hands.

“I’ll always try to find a way to find you,” I told her.

She pressed a letter into my palm. “Please don’t open it until you get home, okay?”

On the train ride back, I kept my hand closed around the envelope. I didn’t dare open it early. I didn’t even dare loosen my grip. It felt like the last piece of her warmth I could carry with me. Outside the window, towns blurred past, but all I could think about was the way she looked under the fireworks. The way her hand fit into mine, like it had been waiting there.

When I got home, my mom immediately pestered me for details about my week. I told her everything. Everything except the kiss. And she gushed and squeezed me tight.

“My little boy.”

“Mom, please,” I groaned, trying to wriggle free.

When I finally made it to my room, I sat on my bed for a long moment, just staring at the envelope. My hands were shaking a little. It felt like opening it would make everything real — the kiss, the distance, the possibility of something more.

I tore it open.

Dear Justin,

Many years I’ve struggled with whether this would work out or not. People always say long‑distance relationships are difficult. It can feel empty, and hard to get over the yearnings for longing. When you first asked me if I was ever asked out, I never said yes, but always wondered ‘what if.’ There were even moments when I thought about stopping our letters so we could move forward separately. But when you told me about Becca, and how you are here now in my home, I knew you were patient. I knew we could make this work.

I wish we could’ve met later, when we’d already settled somewhere, so we didn’t have to suffer through these days apart. But if you are still willing, still determined to hold out, maybe we can make it work. Please let me know if you will.

With heavy anticipation,

Lanie

My throat tightened, and tears rolled down my cheeks. I pulled out my phone and typed: I will.

From then on, smiley faces turned into hearts, and our messages shifted from simple updates to something brighter, something hopeful. It felt like the world had tilted in our favor, even if just a little.

But when I returned to school and saw Becca, things had taken a turn.

She and her boyfriend had broken up over the break. Their conversations had become arguments, and hugs had turned into a shoulder to cry on. I listened, offered ice cream, and stayed on the phone with her when she needed to vent. I didn’t mention Lanie, not yet. Part of me was afraid it would sound like bragging. Part of me was afraid it would hurt her.

And part of me was afraid of something else entirely:

What if what happened to Becca happened to us?

I told Lanie everything later that night.

“It’s scary,” she said. “Even at my school, there are a lot of breakups.”

“Yeah. Maybe if we get our arguments out of the way early, it’ll help.

“Mint chocolate ice cream tastes like toothpaste.”

“I didn’t expect you to have such refined tastes as I do.”

We both laughed.

“I hope we can keep this going… you know, you and I.”

“I do too.”

For the first time, it was my turn to move. My father’s job, taking us even farther from where Lanie lived. It felt like the universe was having a laugh at our expense.

Visiting was off the table but plans after graduation weren’t. We studied hard, both of us determined to end up at the same university.

It’s strange to think we held on for ten years; waiting, hoping, growing from letters to phone calls to messages. Maybe there’s still risk ahead, but now, as we prepare to walk the same campus, we finally get to experience what we’ve longed for all this time.

The marble I once chipped at as a child can finally be shaped into something whole. Not rushed, not forced, but revealed in its own time.

One love, on two paths, diverging together… and finally converging.