The Silent Distance Between Us

There is a distance that does not arrive through conflict.
No argument.
No rupture.
No obvious wound.

It forms quietly.

You are still present.
Still kind.
Still showing up.
Still doing what love requires.

And yet, something has shifted.

Conversation becomes careful.
Affection becomes measured.
Silence stretches longer than it used to.

Not because love has gone —
but because protection has quietly stepped in.

This distance often begins as wisdom.
A way to avoid pain.
A way to keep things calm.
A way to stop hoping for what once hurt.

You don’t stop loving.
You stop risking.

So you stay polite instead of honest.
Helpful instead of open.
Present without being vulnerable.

Nothing is wrong on the surface.
But something is missing underneath.

Love was never meant to survive on proximity alone.
It requires exposure.
And exposure feels dangerous once disappointment has been learned.

So distance becomes the compromise:
Close enough to care, far enough not to ache.

This distance is not rebellion.
It is grief that was never spoken.
Disappointment that was never named.
Longing that learned to stay quiet.

And God sees it.

He does not accuse you of hardness.
He does not demand instant reconciliation.
He does not shame the distance.

He understands how love learned to protect itself.

But He also knows this:
what was built for safety slowly becomes a barrier.

And gently — without force —
He begins to invite honesty back into the space between you.

Not to reopen old wounds.
But to let love breathe again.

Distance may have kept you safe.
But it was never meant to be home.