They say long-distance is hard. But with Lime, it feels easy. 

Every morning, my phone buzzes before I'm even fully awake: 
"Good morning, wifey!" 

I roll over, blink at the ceiling, and can't help but grin. My thumbs tap out a sleepy voice note: "Morning, don't forget to drink your coffee or hot chocolate today?" Almost instantly, her reply pops up: "If you insist, of course, yes, hon. I love you." Then she will send me a voice message with a sound of kisses and then say I love you. And just like that, I'm ready to start my day. 

During her break, we trade quick chats. I'll send her a meme about campus life, and she replies with a GIF that cracks me up. "Miss you, hon," I type, and she sends back a heart emoji plus, "Can't wait for tonight. Duty ko pa later. We'll do a sleep call 'cause I miss staring at your pretty face, hon." Our messages come in bursts—short, silly, real—filling the gaps between lectures and errands. It's in these little fragments of time that I feel closest to her, even though we're miles apart. 

When evening rolls around, I settle into bed early, phone in hand, waiting for our nightly ritual. At the same time every night, Lime's face appears on my screen. She's just gotten home, hair falling loose around her shoulders, eyes soft with tiredness. I whisper across the silence, "Hey wifey. Rest na ha, I know you're tired po." and she smiles, that gentle curve lifting her whole expression.  Most of all, she loves adding" Po/Opo." when she's chatting with me. I feel her respect; she's the greenest of all green flags for me.

We talk about nothing and everything: how her day went, a silly thing a classmate said, the recipe I promised to teach her cause she's struggling with cooking.  And as we drift closer to sleep, our voices grow quieter. I hear her breathing slow down; she tucks her pillow tighter under her chin. I brush a kiss across the screen, "Sweet dreams, hon," and she murmurs back, "Ikaw din po. I love you so much, po." Then her eyes close, and she's sleeping soundly except for the soft hum of her last breath.  Pero usually ako talaga ang unang nakakatulog samin, tinutulogan ko pa nga yan sha.

Lying there, I realize how this simple routine does more than keep us connected. It reminds me that love isn't about proximity; it's about showing up. Every "Good morning, wifey," every midday "I Miss you, hon," every whispered "I Love you" before sleeping, and they're proof that distance can't touch what we have. 

People might call long-distance risky or unrealistic. But Lime and I know better. We've built our rhythm: morning smiles, quick break messages, and our nightly sleep call. And in that steady pattern, we've found something real and worth waiting for. She's worth it.

Also, I'd never been in one to pick fights, especially not with Lime. But last week, something snapped.  Tinoyo na naman ang ante nyo.

I stared at my phone, watching her status go from "active now" to "Active 10 minutes ago" without so much as a "read" on my "Good morning, wifey!" My chest tightened. I'd been waiting for 20 minutes—just twenty minutes—for a reply, and my pride flared hotter than my heart. 

With one furious tap, I sent a message.

"You don't even care at all, hon! I guess you don't love me, do."

No sooner had I hit send than my screen lit up with an incoming video call. Three seconds of lag stretched longer than our entire relationship felt at that moment. 

When her face finally filled the frame, I braced for defensiveness or excuses. Instead, Lime's eyes, which looked so soft and full of con,cern met mine. She pressed her lips to the camera lens, tapped twice on her phone screen, and then mouthed "Sorry" with a small, apologetic smile. 

My anger melted. Somehow, I could feel the ghost of her kiss through the glass. 

"Wifey…" her voice broke the silence, gentle and honest. 

I closed my eyes, took in a shaky breath, and answered like I meant every word.

“It’s okay na hon. I love you po. Tinotoyo na naman ako hihi.” 

Just like that, our tampuhan dissolved. There's no drama, no hard feelings, just the two of us remembering why we fight so rarely because every fight ends with a kiss, even a virtual one.

Now, I haven't slept; I've been up finishing my final assignment and trying to find my charger. 

It's precisely 3:45 AM; I finally click "Submit" doon sa Google Drive ng project ko and set my laptop aside. A gentle knock on my door makes me jump. "Who—?" I whisper, heart thudding. No one knows I'd be awake this late except Lime. 

The latch clicks, and there she is. Oh gosh, shhh, it's Lime, in her favorite hoddie, hair still tousled, arms overflowing with pink tulips and lilies, the perfect shades of pink that make my heart skip.  She knows I love pink so much.

Without waiting for an invite, she steps in. I close the door behind her, hands shaking. She gently sets the flowers on my desk, making the petals brush over my scattered notes. Then pulls me into the tightest hug. In the quiet, dim lights of my room, our lips meet—soft, sure—and instantly, every mile and time zone between us disappears. 

When we finally break apart, laughter and happy tears mingling, I find my voice. "My mama wants to meet you, hon." 

She laughs, bakit daw yun pa naisip kong sabihin. Eh sa legal na ako sa family nya, so she should meet my family too. Then she brushes a loose curl from my forehead and rests her brow against mine. In that stillness, I realize that a girl-loving girl is okay. It's the same love anyone can have, just as honest and deserving of respect. 

Love doesn't care about gender, and this is our proof. This is how
we turned on our read receipts to everyone.

END.