Poema De La Distancia Novels & Stories

the part that allowed choice. “You’re wrong,” I said.. the words stronger now. because I knew. “connection doesn’t remove distance.” the space cracked. sharp. because that didn’t align. “distance is what makes it matter.” because that was the truth. the thing it couldn’t process. couldn’t resolve. couldn’t fix. The mark flared. Violently. not merging. separating. pushing back. reclaiming space. between us. zayden’s presence snapped clear again. distinct. his thoughts his own. mine—mine.

One moment we were in my kitchen and in what felt like a single intake of breath we were in my living room, then the hallway, then back, and the whole thing had a quality that my brain kept trying to file under impossible and kept failing because it had just happened and I had been there for it. I was gripping his hand with both of mine when he stopped. "Okay," I said, after a moment. "Okay." "Too much?" "No." I steadied myself. "No, it was — that was extraordinary." I looked up at him. "You can do that anywhere? Any distance?" "Within certain limits," he said. "Longer distances take more—" He paused, searching for the right word. "More of me. There's a cost to it at greater distances."

He wrote back with tenderness, describing how he had lit a candle in a small church overseas, whispering my name as though to bridge the distance with a gesture of light. The months became chapters, the letters their own book. We learned how to live inside the absence without letting it break us. I discovered that writing to him slowed my days, forced me to notice the small details I might have overlooked otherwise. A bird on the balcony railing, the sound of children laughing in the street, the way fabric caught the sun differently in late afternoon. These became the brushstrokes of my letters, the intimate language of distance.

"When are you starting your plan against Henry?" "I was planning to do it after the wedding, but if you want to, I can get it rolling right away." "Alright. Let's do it. I can't wait any longer." Whitney clenched her hands. "Henry made Summer lose her arm, and bankrupted my family, causing my parents to die horrible deaths. I won't let him get away with this!" Lucas frowned and held her hands, saying solemnly, "You're always talking about things that never happened in reality. Are you trying to say that you came from another universe?"

Bare walls, just a bed, a basin for water, flames leaping in the hearth. Here, closeness isn’t something snatched in quiet moments - it settles like dust after a long journey. One glance, then another, and the act begins to fade. Roads stretch ahead, just us inside this car, no audience left. Distance strips things down, layer by layer, until there’s nothing to hide behind.

2 What Distance Promises The bond tightened as Tharien put more streets between himself and the quiet circle of lamplight he’d left behind. It wasn’t pain at first. It was pressure—an invisible hand pressing into the hollow behind his sternum, reminding him of the line he was stretching thin with every step. He kept his pace steady, eyes forward, breath measured. The city blurred into a smear of light and motion around him, but the ache in his chest remained precise. Distance is how I keep her safe.

Despite our differences, despite some moments where we saw each other thinking differently, we always found a way to be okay, and she has been a pillar for me. Because of her I have been able to face many things of fate and today I realize that you value that person more when you are not close to them, so you miss them more. I was once far away from her, now she sees more distance between us again and how she tells me she feels the gap. It's like a snake leaving its venom on the skin, the wound hurts and deepens like the pain I feel when I feel and touch the distance from it, although I try to resist and not see myself completely thrown into perdition. It's hard. Who said it would be easy?

His Point of View Distance is not difficult for me. It is the state I was made in. I step back from her thread with intention, not severing it, only removing myself from its immediate pull. I do not abandon it. I place it aside, where it will remain until I choose to return. That choice matters. Distance has always been the difference between function and fracture. Between what I am meant to do and what I must never want. I have learned, over long ages, that proximity invites distortion. So I do not linger. I do not watch what I am not meant to touch.

I read the marked page three times. It was a poem about the sea. About standing at the edge of something vast and choosing to stay on the shore not because the water was frightening but because the shore was where the person you loved was standing. About how the greatest distance was never the one between you and the thing you were afraid of but the one between you and the person you had chosen. I sat on the edge of the bed and read it three times and held the book against my chest and sat with the specific feeling of being understood completely by someone who expressed it through the margin of a dead woman's poetry book rather than saying it out loud.

His thumb was moving slowly across the back of my hand in the way it moved when he was not thinking about moving it, and outside the window the evening was doing its good and unhurried work, and the bond between us was warm and full and entirely sufficient. "For the record," he said, after a while. "Yes," I said. "The distance is always correctable," he said. "Whatever distance exists between us at any given moment. It is always correctable." I thought about the border and the winter garden and the corridor and the formal hall and all the distances we had crossed and all the ones we had failed to cross and come back and crossed anyway. "I know," I said. "I need you to know it as a permanent