Dawn
Long distance turned out to be quieter than I expected.
Not empty... just stretched.
Our days didn't line up the same anymore. When I woke up, Earl was usually already halfway through his afternoon. When I went to bed, he was just starting his morning. Time zones became something I carried in my head, constantly adjusting, constantly calculating.
But we made it work.
He texted me before his appointments. Short messages, careful words.
Going in now.
I'm okay.
I'll tell you how it goes.
I always replied the same way.
I'm here.
Proud of you.
Take your time.
Some days, calls were easy. He'd sit by the window in the small apartment his parents rented near the clinic, sunlight spilling across his face, curls a little messier than usual.
"Can you hear me okay?" I'd ask every time.
He'd smile and nod. "Yeah. Clear today."
Those were the good days.
On the harder ones, his voice was softer. Slower. Like speaking took more effort than usual. Sometimes he wore the padded headphones the doctors recommended, sometimes not.
"They adjusted the treatment today," he'd explain, fingers tracing the edge of his mug. "My ears feel… full."
I learned not to panic. Learned to listen instead of fixing. Learned that being there didn't mean having answers, it meant staying.
"That sounds uncomfortable," I'd say. "Do you want to talk, or do you want a distraction?"
He always appreciated that.
"Can you tell me about practice?" he'd ask. "The dumb stuff. The loud stuff."
So I did.
I told him about Derrick calling me "soft" for checking my phone too often. About Coach yelling louder than necessary. About how the field felt empty without someone sitting on the bleachers waiting for me.
"I keep looking over," I admitted once. "Like you'll be there."
He smiled, eyes warm even through the screen. "I wish I was."
Sometimes we didn't talk much at all. We'd just stay on the call, him reading, me doing homework... comfortable in the shared silence. The kind that didn't demand anything.
One night, after a particularly long day, he hesitated before speaking.
"I got scared today," he said quietly.
I stopped what I was doing. "What happened?"
"The sound faded again. Just for a bit." He swallowed. "They said it can happen. That it doesn't mean the treatment isn't working. But…" He trailed off.
I leaned closer to the screen, like that could bridge the distance. "Hey. You don't have to be brave with me."
His shoulders loosened a fraction. "I know."
"You're doing something really hard," I said. "And you're doing it anyway. That matters."
He nodded slowly. "It helps. Hearing you say that."
We started leaving each other voice notes too. Short ones. Easy ones.
Mine were usually after practice, breathless and tired.
"Hey, boyfriend. Survived another day. Miss you."
His were softer, often recorded late at night.
"Hi. I'm okay. Today was better, and I thought about you."
I saved every single one.
Weeks passed like that, appointments, school, messages crossing oceans and hours. It wasn't perfect. We missed each other in ways that ached sometimes.
But it was steady.
One evening, he called me smiling wider than I'd seen in days.
"They said I'm responding well," he said. "Still a long way to go. But… progress."
I felt my chest fill with something bright and fierce. "That's amazing."
"I wanted you to be the first to know."
"I'm really proud of you," I said, voice thick. "You know that, right?"
He smiled, softer now. "Yeah. I do."
After we hung up, I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling, phone warm in my hand.
Long distance wasn't easy.
But loving Earl, even like this felt certain.
I was learning that certainty, could travel any distance.