I love your accent. I love how you speak a little differently from the rest, how your cultural background is one of a kind to my very limited exposure from the past 19 years of interacting with almost exclusively people of my own race.
I love the way you say my name; tender, gentle, like the delicate sound of rain, like the warmth of the sun. I’m usually tired of hearing my name; like it’s routine, over and over again, but you make even the most common of things sound like magic.
I replay your voice message over and over again, and for the entire 1.5 minutes I am ecstatic, swept away by a wild gust of euphoria. Your intonation goes up and down, like a rollercoaster, sometimes you are louder and sometimes you are soft, and sometimes you are bold and sometimes you are shy. I love that.
You’re not one to typically enjoy phone calls, much less sending voice messages. You say that it’s weird because it feels like you’re talking to a wall, but I feel you—every inch of you, every nook and cranny of your soul, right by my side. You’re warm, even when it’s cold outside.
My countdown timer reads 10 days to seeing you. I can’t believe we are already more than halfway there, nearly a month without seeing you, it’s not exactly long distance, but neither is it short. I don’t want to imagine when we both have to go for a semester long exchange.
Your limited internet is a painful ordeal to survive.
D-10, come back soon.
; 