Proximity is not intimacy.


My quasi-boo lives 7.5 miles away. From the couch I am living off (temporary circumstance until I get my new place) to his door, I can get there in 15 minutes.


But I haven’t been there in a month. Actually, five weeks.


Even when I was there the last time with him, we were close. On paper, if we took a photo and used chemicals to develop it, we look perfect. We look amazing. We look like we are at home with each other.


But behind the kissing, entanglements, and respite, there’s still an emotional distance.


His mind is across town, thinking about his business and his next steps, pondering about his business partner and the employees that may have to be fired. His body is next to me, wrapped up in mine, but his energy is a whisper of his normal self.

Is this what I expected from this summer fling? Not at all. But I’m here.

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