About the Parallels

There’s a peculiar kind of closeness that only reveals itself when we’re just out of sync. Not broken. Just... offset. As if the clocks between us refuse to agree on what time it is—only on the fact that we both keep checking.

We live in parallel, you and I. Not in fantasy. In the quiet rhythm of almosts. I breathe in when you exhale. You arrive the moment I leave. And somewhere in between, something lingers. Something that doesn’t quite belong to this world, but knows exactly where to find me.

At this distance, we don’t lose ourselves.
We see more. We feel sharper.
We stay calibrated—not to the same stars, perhaps—but to the same longing.

I wonder if you feel it too, that subtle pull under the ribs. That familiar ache that arrives without warning, like a ghost that knows your name but never says it out loud. Maybe it’s always been like this for us—breadcrumbs left in separate cities, melodies that vanish as soon as they're played, words written without remembering who wrote them.

Still, I would not trade this distance.

Because if we were closer, we wouldn’t be thinking.
We’d be undoing.
And the beauty of this thing—whatever this is—would dissolve into reality too quickly to carry the same charge.

This space is what lets us imagine each other more fully than presence ever could.

It’s the pause before the reaching. The breath before the answer. The posture you take not because someone told you to—but because you chose to hold still, in case they’re watching. And sometimes… they are.

And yet, when it quiets enough... I ask myself:

If the moment cracked open—
if I let go of the breath I’ve been holding—
if you forgot, just once, to keep your distance...

Where would your lips land?

— K