The Weight of Distance

CHAPTER-18

The days after graduation stretched thin, slipping past like fragile threads that threatened to unravel at the slightest pull. 

My schedule had become a constant blur of meetings, rehearsals, and interviews, the rhythm of life outside campus faster, sharper, and heavier than I’d anticipated. 

My phone buzzed incessantly, every notification a reminder that the world now had eyes on me, waiting for me to perform, to speak, to be.

And in the middle of it all, there was him. 

Or rather, the absence of him.

We had planned to meet again after graduation, to celebrate quietly, somewhere no one could watch, somewhere that felt ours. 

But every time I checked my calendar, every time I saw the label’s messages pop up, every time I read the subtle warnings in my manager’s tone, I knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

I caught myself glancing at my phone during rehearsals, half-expecting a text, a quick “I’ll see you later,” a hint that he was thinking of me too. 

But it never came. And slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, our daily moments slipped away. 

The walks through campus were replaced by solo commutes to studios. 

The café visits became memories, hazy and golden, tucked away in corners of my mind I didn’t dare revisit too often.

I knew he understood. He always did. That’s what made the absence heavier, the knowledge that he wasn’t just unaware of the pressures; he had chosen, silently, to respect them. To step back in ways I didn’t even realize until weeks later.

One evening, after a marathon rehearsal, I walked alone along the river, the city lights reflecting in the water like scattered stars. My phone lay heavy in my bag. The wind tugged at my hair, tugged at my coat, tugged at the corners of my resolve. And yet, despite the emptiness of the streets, I felt a pull toward him, toward the small warmth he had always brought into my days.

I remembered the secret moments, the café, our first kiss, the quiet walks. And I realized how quickly those moments had begun to feel like a fragile lifeline I could no longer reach.

The rumors hadn’t helped. A fleeting photo here, a casual fan encounter there, and suddenly the world had its own narrative about us. 

One headline suggested closeness, another questioned discretion. 

My label had been careful, but their warnings were constant: “Be mindful. Your image is delicate. Distance is necessary.”

I followed their instructions, nodding politely, smiling when cameras clicked, answering questions when asked, but the more I complied, the more I felt the space between us stretch. Every message from him that once sparked joy now arrived late, short, almost cautious.

And yet, he remained. Always there in small ways, sometimes a text in the middle of a long day, sometimes a quiet nod at a distant event, sometimes the memory of his hands brushing mine. Each encounter, though fleeting, carried the weight of everything unsaid, the tension of restraint and longing coiled tight in both our chests.

I met Minori for lunch one day, our favorite little café tucked into a quiet side street. She studied me over the rim of her coffee cup, eyebrows knitting slightly.

“You’ve changed,” she said softly, not accusatory, but noticing. “Not in a bad way… just… quieter.”

I stirred my tea, suddenly aware of how true her words were. “It’s… complicated,” I murmured. “Everything’s complicated.”

She reached across the table, a touch of reassurance in her palm. “You know he’s still there, right? Even if it doesn’t look like it?”

I wanted to believe her. I really did. But the growing distance was a weight I felt in every step, every rehearsal, every quiet evening when I imagined him nearby and found only the emptiness of my apartment.

Later that week, I saw him from afar at a small street performance I had been invited to attend. The sun was beginning to dip, painting the streets in gold and amber. He leaned against a railing, backpack slung casually, eyes scanning the crowd until they rested briefly on me. I waved subtly, and he nodded, a gesture so small, yet it felt monumental.

But as quickly as it came, the moment passed. I was ushered into the venue, smiles and greetings filling the space around me, and by the time the performance ended, he had disappeared into the crowd.

That night, I lay in bed, phone clutched loosely in my hand, thinking about him. About us. 

About how easy it had been once to feel connected, to slip into moments where the rest of the world didn’t matter. And now… every glance, every passing encounter felt measured, careful, distant.

The tension wasn’t just external. It was inside me, coiling around my chest. I wanted to see him, to reach for him, to ignore the world and let our hands meet, our lips meet again, and forget everything else. 

But every time I imagined that, I heard the quiet admonitions of my label, felt the pressure of public eyes, and remembered the weight of expectation that had become impossible to ignore.

And still, I missed him fiercely.

One evening, I finally broke. I texted him, a simple message that carried more hope than sense:

“Are you free tonight? Can we… talk?”

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the send button, and waited. And waited.

Hours passed. No reply.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, but I knew. He understood too well. The unspoken rules, the necessary distance, the silent compromise we were both making without actually saying it aloud.

Days turned into a week, and finally, a short reply appeared:

“Maybe tomorrow. I've been busy lately. Sorry.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to keep hope alive, enough to remind me that despite everything, he was still here, still part of my world.

And in that moment, I realized: the distance wasn’t permanent. It was a challenge, a test of resilience, of patience, of trust. And though the world pressed in from all sides.

Fame, expectations, rumors, I knew that the moments we could get, no matter how brief, were ours alone.

But even as I felt that reassurance, a knot of fear settled in my stomach. How long could we keep this balance? How long before the pressures of the outside world forced a choice we weren’t ready to make?

I didn’t know the answer. 

Or. 

Maybe I don't want to know the answer. 

I only knew that when he finally appeared, in whatever quiet corner we could claim for ourselves, the world seemed to shrink around us. And in that moment, despite everything, I still felt the pull of him, the rhythm of us, as strong and fragile as it had ever been.

END CHAPTER-18