We are always a few minutes late, a few miles apart, a few degrees shy of the boiling point. I imagine a world stacked right on top of this one, separated by a pane of glass too thick to break but thin enough to see through. In that world, you didn't get on the train. In that world, I didn't say "I'm fine" when I wasn't. In that world, the camera has film, the pen has ink, and the calendar has only Sundays. We are perfect there. We are boring there. We argue about laundry and taxes instead of whispered goodbyes and the tragedy of geography. But here, on this side of the glass, I only have the echo. So I will love you quietly, like a book I've memorized but can no longer open. I will see you when the timeline bends.