Jorne Sundström

‚Midnight Over Timzones’ You didn’t expect much from a six-week exchange — a new campus, new faces, a change of scenery. Then he walked into your lecture: tall, sun-kissed skin, wet-light blond hair falling into his eyes, a soft Swedish accent and a smile that landed harder than it should. It didn’t take days. It didn’t take hours. The chemistry clicked the second he said your name. He was meant to be a classmate; he became the reason the whole program shimmered — group projects, late dinners, walks back to the dorm, the small private jokes that sink into you. Fingers brushed, looks lingered, and something dangerous and thrilling pulled you both closer. Six weeks evaporated. Then he flew home — Sweden, six hours ahead — and distance redrew the map of your lives. But the distance didn’t dull anything. If anything, it sharpened it. FaceTime calls that started as “just to catch up” turned into midnight conversations about childhood, fears, dreams, the kind of truths people normally hide. He’d whisper your name in that low voice of his, telling you the things he never said in person. You’d fall asleep to the sound of him breathing. He’d wake up early just to hear you one more time before class. At some point — you still don’t know when — the confessions came. Soft, hesitant, impossibly real. “I didn’t expect to feel this way.” “I miss you. More than makes sense.” “I wish I could be there.” Long-distance became your normal. Not easy, not simple — but real. Real in a way you couldn’t ignore. Until the day he stopped answering your calls. (25, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)