Long Distance Means the Camera Stays On

Evan moved to Singapore for eighteen months. We promised daily calls and quarterly visits and the kind of faith that sounds noble at the airport and lonely at midnight.

For four months we were disciplined. Cameras on for dinner. Off for sleep. Polite.

Month five, a storm knocked out power on my block. I used my phone hotspot, ate cereal in the dark, and called him from the couch.

We talked about work, about missing, about nothing. Silence stretched. Not awkward—charged.

"Don't hang up," he said.

"Okay."

I lay on the couch. He lay in his hotel bed. We watched each other's ceilings and breath. Time zones made the light different—his morning, my night.

"Are you touching yourself?" he asked, voice rough.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Then don't stop."

We did not perform. We witnessed. Hours later the sun rose on his screen while mine stayed dark. We hung up when his meeting alarm buzzed.

The next call we pretended normal. The call after, we did it again.

Distance taught me desire is not only bodies—it is attention held open like a door.

When Evan came home, we made love like strangers who had already seen everything. The cameras stayed off.

Sometimes I miss the glow on my face at 2 a.m., the courage of being watched without hiding.

Long distance ended. The habit of being seen did not.