We meet in what feels like once in a blue moon, just like all long-distance couples do. Most of them said it gets easier with time, absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.

Doesn't it make you long for them even more? I thought.

But then I figured it was more about the anticipation of meeting and the rush of enjoying their brief time together, serotonin and dopamine and adrenaline and whatever all mashed up into their souls, to give them enough strength. To hold out till the day the long-distance would end.

I wondered if I was capable of enduring.

Maybe.

My friends dragged me out of the house with tickets to a theme park that we hadn't visited in a long time. Even you told me to go, that you'd be away and that I really should work on living life outside of the two of us. So I went -- queued for rides, tried on cute hairbands, ate overpriced churros, and took photos.

When I looked at the polaroids, there was still the feeling of something wrong because you weren't there, and my friends comforted me when they saw my expression.

It wasn't the same, how a place touted to be so magical could feel so flat, like you'd taken some of the dreams and wonder with you, even though you'd never been here.

They said grief changes like a shrinking ball in a box; I wondered if it was a ball with spikes in a cardboard box, leaving gaping holes in the walls wherever it touched.

The next time I saw you, I'd boarded a train headed far away from home, and ended up at a historical site: the ancient palace.

There was a substantial number of tourists for a cloudy weekday morning, small groups dressed in rented traditional costumes touring the place.

I must have looked lost, because a lady with a nametag and pamphlets came over and invited me to rent a costume too, speaking in a language I didn't understand as she gestured to the different designs and options on the paper. I shook my head.

"Cheap package, very pretty. For couple." She switched to English.

"Thank you, but it's okay. I'm here alone."

She met my eyes, and the customer-service smile slipped a little.

"Just for you, then?"

I agreed, thinking at least I could take more photos to show you.

But of course I had to ask strangers for help, because I was alone, and as they snapped pictures I tried my best to smile, pretending that you were the one holding up the phone instead.

We met again for that concert we'd been talking about for ages, the one I saved up money for us to go to. I wasn't that fond of their recent music, but it was still our favourite band going on a world tour, and we were worried we'd run out of time before they came again.

So I bought the most expensive tickets available and wore a pair of comfortable shoes in preparation for hours of standing that night.

As the sun dipped and the lights went out, I saw you rising up from that stage.

You performed so well, and for those few hours I screamed and danced with the crowd around me, indulging in the delusion that maybe it was you, and that you were singing for me.

I saw you again, the night they said there'd be a meteor shower.

I even headed out of the apartment block into an open field with less streetlights, just so I could be sure to see it.

I thought it would be something as grand as fireworks, the way they showed in anime, but really it was about an hour of still dark sky with cold little lights, punctuated by small streaks, like one of those stars lost suspension and tumbled across the night, only to disappear in seconds.

Then you showed up, like you knew I would be here.

I grumbled to you about how it felt like I barely saw anything, and you said, "How can that be? You've been stargazing this whole time. That's something."

As if on cue another shooting star cut across the night sky. This time, it was so bright that the tail shone a neon green, and as I looked over to you in amazement you gave me a small smile, as if to say, see?

I guess I see the most beautiful things only when I'm with you.

Long-distance had to end, because it got kind of draining that we could only meet and share these fleeting moments. You didn't agree with me -- you said it was these bits and pieces that made our time together more precious.

I thought we'd hold a bonfire by the sea.

Something I thought was romantic after watching too many movies, but we never really got to try it because of the logistics involved, and how you thought of the gritty sand and smoky air as more a penance than enjoyment. Mainly because of the latter.

So I set it up on my own, and I kept the fire going by tossing in paper instead. Papers folded like flowers and clothes, some of my worn-down books, and the photos for you.

Then we walked along the shore collecting some seashells, and marveled at the little creatures that turned the waves blue. I called them blue tears, and you corrected me saying they were dinoflagellates, and we had a good laugh about how you were nerdy and I was sappy.

Finally, I pleaded with you to let me go, so that I could go to you.

For once I saw sorrow in your eyes, and you held my hand as we walked together, the way I imagined a royal couple descending the steps at an evening gala, making their grand entrance to a sea of guests. I saw the whirlwind of fancy outfits gleaming under the chandelier, blending into one another the same way the colours of the world did in all the times I'd met you, light and darkness warped but intertwined. How it sometimes felt overwhelming, but I'd always feel at ease deep down knowing you were right next to me.

What if we could head backwards this time? What if that could dull the pain?

I wonder if that could change everything, refill the sorrows with fleeting moments of magic, miracles that could fulfil a lifetime...

Maybe.