“I believe in karma,” she said, playfully, as we were finishing breakfast.
“Me too. I abide my life by it,” I replied. “You don’t wanna get a snowball rolling down a hill if you know you’ll be at the bottom, waiting for it to hit you in the face.”
“Just made that up. Trademark!” I said, with a big triumphant smile.
We spent a whole week together at my place in Frederiksberg, by New Years break. Days went by fast. Time flies when you are having fun, they say. I know we couldn’t make it for a life together, but we fucking nailed the everyday. We cooked, worked out, shopped for groceries, cleaned up and -literally- did Netflix and chill. We never got tired of cuddling, having sex, spooning in bed or just touching each other, as if our skin’s natural state was togetherness. I’ve never had that before. And, many times, I’m afraid I will never have it again.
I, rationally, completely understand our distance. But, emotionally -and under these extenuating circumstances-, I hate it that we are now so far away. That I can’t text her and say “Hey, wanna spend the quarantine with me?” Because there’s no one else I would rather be with.
I look back at those days living together, and I can clearly feel the void of her absence, caving in my chest. We are completely cut off from one another’s life and I feel pathetic for continuing to bring our past up in my words and in my mind. I guess we all hold on to the happy times when the going gets hard. When sanity is at stake, it’s nice to feel a little warm inside.

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