Love Doesn't Die in Long-Distance Relationships.

It Just Gets Tired

Some people DMed me asking what I think about long-distance relationships.

So here it is.

Long-distance is like trying to charge your heart with a weak power bank. The connection flickers. The battery survives. But it never really fills. You’re not apart. But you’re never fully together either.

At first, it feels doable. You tell yourself love is stronger than geography. That feelings matter more than frequency. That maybe, just maybe, this is the kind of romance that beats the odds.

But over time, something shifts.

You start noticing pauses. The silences between calls. The slight delay in their responses. You say “I miss you,” and they say “Same.” But it doesn’t feel the same. It feels like you’re giving more and getting less.

You try not to bring it up. You don’t want to be “that person.” But it eats at you.

Especially now, with dating apps just a swipe away.

You trust them. You want to. But your brain plays games. You scroll through reels of people talking about situationships, ghosting, betrayal. You see the green dot on their WhatsApp and wonder why they didn’t reply to you. You catch yourself rereading old texts, comparing old voice notes to the newer ones.

They sound different. Or maybe you’ve just started hearing differently.

You don’t accuse. You just ask, “Are we okay?”
And they say, “Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”
And that hurts more than a no.

Because you’re not asking for drama. You’re asking for presence. For effort. For a sign that this distance isn’t just physical anymore.

Love in long-distance becomes a memory game. You hold on to their smell, their laugh, the way they said your name. And when the calls dry up, those memories are all you have.

But memory is not affection.

And longing is not intimacy.

You wake up at 2 am just to talk to them. They say they’re too tired. You pretend it’s okay. But inside, something cracks.

Even your insecurities change. You’re not worried about them liking someone else. You’re worried about them unliking you. The version of you that they can’t see anymore.

You send selfies, hoping they’ll notice a haircut. They reply with a heart emoji. You delete the next one.

You stop talking about your day because it takes too long to explain the context. You skip sharing jokes because they need background. You start editing yourself before they even hear you.

And slowly, you begin to wonder if you're in a relationship or just holding on to the ghost of one.

But then, once in a while, they surprise you. A voice note. A letter. A shared playlist. Something small. And it hits you like a wave.

They’re still trying.

And maybe that’s what long-distance really is. A series of small tries across a sea of doubt.

Not built on grand gestures. But on repetition. On effort. On the refusal to let go.

Because in the end, love doesn’t die in long-distance.

It just gets tired.

And all you can do is hope both of you get tired at different times.