Arm's Length

Hold a page right up against your nose. You can't read a single word. The words are all there. You're just too close to them.

Now here's a sentence that's hard to hear from someone you love: I need a bit of time for myself. They say it kindly. You hear something else.

So you do one of two things. You move closer, to make sure. Or you move far away, to make a point. Closer. Further. Closer. Further.

Up close, all you see is one ear and a bad mood. From across the field, a dot that might be waving. Either way, you're not looking at them.

And you start to believe that distance is a verdict. That whoever steps back loves less. It isn't. It's a setting. Like the page: it was never the wrong page. It was just too close to read.

So try it the way you'd try it with the page. Don't throw it across the room. Don't press it harder against your face. Move it away, slowly, and watch what happens to the lines.

There. Arm's length. Every word is sharp. Same page. Same person. Not further away from you. Finally in focus. Some people need a little more of it, some a little less. Neither is a flaw.

The question was never how close you can get. It's at what distance you see each other best. And that's a question for two. It has no right answer, only yours. Have you ever asked it out loud?