Ferry Distance
Tonight is about long-distance made gentle— a ferry, a phone, two lights kept on.
Chains tap the pier.
Board: ON TIME.
I buy one token.
Ritual, not worry.
You’re a city away.
We check the same tide app.
The horn sounds low.
I wave anyway.
I take the window seat.
Water draws a white line.
A child sleeps.
A thermos bumps my knee.
I think of your hallway light—
how it knows my step.
We keep it simple:
call when we can,
eat, sleep, write, breathe.
The boat noses the dark.
I hold the token for warmth.
If love is distance,
let it be this:
steady and kind,
two shores kept lit,
so even apart
we walk toward
the same small gold.
Asuka’s Room
I wrote this for nights when love is mostly showing up.
Not grand gestures—just steady light.
What small thing keeps your long-distance steady?
If this met you halfway…
Restack or whisper the line you kept.
There’s something about your writing, Asuka, that always feels like being invited into a very quiet room — the kind of space where every object carries its own warmth and memory.
This piece has that same gentle precision.
The thermos against your knee, the token held for heat, the soft tap of chains on the pier… each detail placed as carefully as folded paper.
It’s minimal, yes, but nothing is missing; the emotion lives in the spaces between the lines.
What moves me most is how you write distance without letting it collapse into longing or loss.
You make it tender.
A ferry, a hallway light, two phones, two lights kept on — all these small things become a shared pulse between two people who are apart but still moving toward each other. Love stripped of spectacle, held together by attention.
And that final image — “the same small gold” — feels like the very essence of it.
If it had been me, I would have gone over the top — a sun, a heart — but you show how it can really be done.
Not a grand horizon or a metaphor trying to be large, but a small, steady light the two of you keep alive from opposite shores.
A direction rather than a destination… perhaps even a compass pointing between two places.
This is one of those pieces that is staying with me long after reading, because it doesn’t try to impress — it simply opens a moment and lets you stand inside it.
Truly beautiful work.
For me, it’s the „sleep well“ typed into a midnight blue screen bubble, soon answered by a gently whispering chime that seems to sound like them near. The photo in my brain no darkness could take away any more.