I miss you, to the point of wanting to tell you every single time I do. But then I stop myself, because eventually I’d grow tired of saying it, and I’d worry you’d grow tired of hearing it.
The trouble is, I miss you is only three words. Three small words carrying a longing that never really leaves, lingering quietly until I can hold you again. They are hopelessly inadequate for everything they are meant to contain.
Because when I say I miss you, I don’t just mean that I wish you were here.
I mean I miss reaching for your hand without thinking. I miss your voice woven into the ordinary moments of my day. I miss the comfort of knowing that somewhere nearby, you exist within arm’s reach. I miss the way time slows down when I’m with you, the way the world becomes gentler, quieter, softer.
“I miss you” is simply the closest language has ever come to describing the unbearable distance between where I am and where I wish I could be.
And perhaps that’s why I never say it as often as I feel it. Because what lives inside those three words is far greater than they will ever be able to hold.
She Was Sea 