of same-zone loving

Three years ago, I was in my hometown on Java, moving towards my wedding at a pace that felt like sludging through extra-creamy peanut butter.

After giving our collective carbon footprint the finger and jetplaning a shameless trail between our Europe-North America-Asia trifecta, it was finally in sight — the end of the last and most miserable stint of long-distance.

For the better part of four years, we had woken up in different time zones and made the illogical choice to love in absentia. Kind of romantic. Kind of ridiculous. Kind of something Nicholas Sparks might have thought up, give or take a fatal illness or two.

These days we wake up in the same mellow summer light – or rainstorm, if the weatherman is being ornery – and I still blink five times very quickly to make sure my eyelids aren’t keeping me hostage in a dream. They aren’t. And I’m ever so glad.

 

{Image of us by the marvelous Heschle}

 

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