Whisper of a distance heart

The night air was quiet, almost too quiet — the kind that made every memory echo louder than it should. Mira stood by her window, the pale light of her phone reflecting on her face as she scrolled through old messages. Each one carried a piece of warmth she no longer felt.  Her last message to him was still unread. A tiny gray tick stared back at her like a reminder that some goodbyes don’t need words to be final.  It had been six months since Ethan left — first for work, then for “space.” At first, Mira believed it was just distance. But as days turned to weeks, and weeks into silence, she realized distance wasn’t measured in miles, but in effort.  She had learned to smile in front of her friends, to laugh at jokes she didn’t find funny, and to tell her heart to stop asking “what if.” But tonight, something inside her stirred again — the quiet ache of missing someone who might have already moved on.  Outside, the city hummed softly — cars passing, lights blinking, life moving. Yet Mira felt still, frozen in that moment of almost forgetting him.  She whispered to the stars, her voice barely audible,  > “If love still remembers us, maybe distance won’t win.”  And though no one heard her, a soft wind brushed her hair — like a whisper from far away, answering back.