Living in different cities, even within the same country, meant dealing with unexpected logistical challenges. One of them was the subtle, but sometimes frustrating, time difference. University schedules rarely aligned perfectly, and finding a window when both Sakura and I were free, awake, and not completely exhausted became a surprisingly difficult task.
"Hey, can you talk?" I'd text, only to receive a reply hours later: Sakura: Sorry, just finished a late lecture! What's up? š
Or she'd call during my class, and I'd have to text back: Me: Can't talk, in class! Call you later?
It wasn't a major time zone difference, just an hour maybe, or sometimes just different class schedules, study times, and social commitments. But that small misalignment meant spontaneous calls were difficult, and even planned calls required careful coordination.
"Missed your call this morning," I mentioned during one evening call.
"Yeah," she sighed. "My history seminar ran over. And then I had a study group."
"It's okay," I said. "My literature class was right after."
Finding time was a constant negotiation. We'd look at our schedules, trying to find overlapping free periods. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Missed calls and delayed texts became more common, little moments of disconnection in our attempt to stay constantly linked across the miles.
It wasn't intentional, but the lack of immediate response, the inability to just call and talk whenever we wanted, could sometimes lead to small anxieties. Was she okay? Was she busy with something else? Was she with one of her new friends?
"Sorry I couldn't text back right away," she'd say, or I would. "Was at a club meeting." Or "Was grabbing dinner with my roommate."
Hearing about their activities with new people, even innocent ones like dinner with a roommate or a study group, could sometimes trigger those quiet insecurities. My mind, in the absence of immediate communication, could fill in the blanks with unhelpful scenarios. Were these new commitments taking priority?
We had to consciously remind ourselves to be understanding, to trust that the delays weren't about lack of desire to talk, but simply the reality of our busy new lives.
"It's just... weird, isn't it?" Sakura said one evening during a call, her voice tired. "Not being able to just... see you. Or talk whenever."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Definitely weird."
"But," she continued, her voice firming slightly, "we knew it would be challenging. We just... have to work at it."
We set up specific times for calls whenever possible, trying to create a new routine for communication amidst the chaos of university life. It wasn't the same as the spontaneous calls or seeing each other every day, but it was a way of ensuring dedicated time for just us.
The small time difference, the differing schedules, the missed calls ā these weren't monumental conflicts, but they were the subtle, everyday challenges of long-distance communication. They required patience, understanding, and a conscious effort to prioritize connection even when logistics made it difficult. Our unexpected love story was navigating the practicalities of distance, learning that even a small misalignment in schedules could feel significant when miles separated your hearts.
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