This morning feels empty. Empty because there is a cold dent right next to the spot where I sleep on our bed.
It's only been 2 days. 2 days without her. That's nothing, really. Just last month we purposely spent over 2 weeks apart, why does this have a greater dooms-day feel to it? Perhaps because, this time, it isn't that we are choosing not to be together, but because other people are telling us that we can't.
We've beaten a lot of odds already. The mere fact that we met in this vast space of human flesh and bone — faded face after faded face — is an amazing accomplishment. When we look at it that we, getting through this is merely child's play.
We have so many options. There are so many possibilities. Even in the most extreme case (which actually provides the greatest amount of permanent solution) we're only talking about months apart, not years or decades. We can do this. We just have to be strong and not give up on that which brought us together in the first place.
Jess' dad has been amazingly supportive through all of this. He told me yesterday that, regardless of what needs to be done, we'll get it done. He said he'd talk to the Prime Minister of Canada if he had to. He's taken today off of work to spend it making phone calls, contacting people, and gathering information. This is coming from a man who goes to work on most of his regular days off, and even then, has limited those to only one a week.
I love you, Jess. And you and I both know that neither one of us are going to let something as silly as this stand in the way of our being together. So we'll be a lonely for a little while. Maybe we'll cry eachother to sleep every night. Maybe we'll just look at this as a nice extended vacation. Maybe you'll be here next week. Maybe you'll be here in a few months. It doesn't matter. In the end, you and I will be together, somewhere, somehow, and that makes all of this worth it.
