The 10,000 Mile Heartbreak: for a Woman I’ve Never Met

I knew it was pathetic to be eating plain white rice for dinner while I stared at the Western Union receipt on my desk, but the thought of her being stressed about her tuition was a knot in my stomach I couldn't untie.

I live my life in a different time zone now. I wake up at 2 AM just to catch her before she goes to sleep, my eyes stinging from the blue light of my phone, waiting for that three-dot typing bubble that makes my pulse spike like a teenager’s. She says she loves the flowers I sent to her office in Bangkok; she says I’m the only one who truly understands her. I’ve never felt her hand in mine, but I’ve memorized the sound of her ceiling fan in the background of our voice calls.

Yesterday, I saw a photo of her at a club with "friends" I didn't recognize. My mind went into overdrive—analyzing the reflection in the glass behind her, the way a hand was resting just a little too close to her shoulder in the frame. I felt sick, a heavy, sinking jealousy, but then she messaged me: "I miss you, I wish you were here." The high was instantaneous.

I immediately opened my banking app. I’ll work the double shift this weekend. I’ll skip the car repairs. As long as she keeps saying my name with that soft, tired lilt in her voice, I’ll keep sending whatever I have. I’m building a bridge out of money and hope, even if I’m the only one standing on it.