The Final Countdown

It’s strange how time can stretch and shrink all at once. Less than ten days before she gets here, and every hour feels like a lifetime. The days seem endless, but the thought of seeing her again makes them blur, folding into each other in a rush of anticipation.

I find myself preparing in ways that don’t make sense—rearranging things, revisiting conversations in my mind, wondering if there’s anything left unsaid. There’s excitement, of course, but also a quiet nervousness. It’s the kind of feeling you get before a storm—not fear, but the thrill of knowing something powerful is about to happen.

Long-distance does that to you. It magnifies everything. The love, the longing, the little insecurities you barely admit to yourself. But it also sharpens your focus. It reminds you why you’re willing to wait, why every sacrifice feels worth it.

Less than ten days. It’s nothing, and it’s everything. I count down the hours, not because I’m impatient, but because I can’t wait to stop counting. To hold her hand instead of my phone. To hear her laugh without a screen in between.

P.S. They say anticipation is half the joy, but I think they’ve never been in love like this