Kangen

Letters are like little time capsules, where the smell of ink is somehow warmer than any Wi-Fi. Here, words don't just convey "hello" - they're like a gentle touch on the cheek. Each line trembles with impatience: when will I finally embrace, breathe in, hold tight, and everything will be back in its place? Between the lines, there's a rustle of anticipation, like in an old mailbox before dawn. The sweet torture of distance, where every "I miss you" sounds a little louder than you'd like. And all this tenderness isn't for show, but for later, for that very moment when the door opens and the world finally breathes a sigh of relief: "You're back."