Long Distance Relationship Texts

Woke up and reached for my phone to tell you about the weird dream I had, then remembered you're still asleep.

The coffee is brewing, and I poured two cups before I remembered you're in a different time zone.

I set my alarm to yours so I could imagine you grumbling and pulling the covers over your head like you always do.

The morning light is hitting your side of the bed, and I'm remembering how your eyes looked that morning in the tent when we first woke up together.

I dreamed we were grocery shopping and you kept putting weird snacks in the cart, and now I'm smiling but also missing you.

Your hoodie is still on the chair, and I pressed my face into it before I even opened my eyes.

I just watched the sunrise and thought about how you'd probably still be asleep, all warm and messy-haired.

The kettle is whistling, and I'm smiling because I can picture you making tea with that ridiculous dinosaur mug you love.

I just poured myself a cup of coffee and realized I made it the way you like it, without thinking.

I keep glancing at the passenger seat, expecting to see you reaching for the radio.

The shower ran cold because I was waiting for you to get in first, like we used to.

I walked past the bakery we always stop at and almost bought you a croissant before remembering.

I caught myself saving the last bite of my dinner for you, then laughed at myself.

The silence in the car on my drive home felt louder without you humming along to the radio.

I folded the laundry and put your favorite sweater on the bed, just to see it there.

I keep opening the fridge to ask what you want for dinner, then closing it again.

The dog sat by the door for ten minutes, waiting for you to come back in.

I turned on the TV to our show and watched the opening credits before realizing I'd rather wait for you.

I just sat in the dark for ten minutes staring at your photo on my nightstand, and I don't even know why.

I keep starting texts about my day, then deleting them because I want to tell you in person, not through a screen.

The rain started an hour ago, and I'm lying here listening to it, wishing it was the sound of your breathing.

I made a cup of tea and held it with both hands, remembering how you'd wrap your fingers around mine to warm them up.

I keep scrolling through old voice messages just to hear your voice say my name.

I just walked into the kitchen and saw the mug you left here last visit, and I had to look away.

I'm lying in bed with my arm stretched out to your side, even though I know it's empty.

I keep replaying the last time you hugged me, and I can still feel the pressure of your arms.

I just marked another day off the calendar, and I can almost feel your arms around me when I close my eyes.

I keep smelling your cologne on my scarf and it's making the countdown feel both slower and sweeter.

I'm already planning what I'll cook for our first dinner together—something that fills the whole apartment with warmth.

I caught myself smiling at the empty seat next to me on the couch, imagining you there with your feet in my lap.

I just booked the last weekend before you come home, and I'm already clearing my schedule so nothing gets in the way.

I keep replaying the sound of your laugh from our last call, and it's the only thing getting me through these final days.

I'm saving up all the little things I want to show you—the new coffee shop, the park bench with the view, the way the light hits our street at dusk.

I set a countdown on my phone and I check it every morning, picturing the moment I finally get to kiss you again.

I just saw a couple sharing an umbrella and thought of how you always tilt yours toward me.

The barista handed me my coffee and I almost said 'make that two' before remembering you're not here.

I found a receipt from our last dinner together in my jacket pocket and I'm keeping it there.

The way the rain sounds on the roof reminds me of that night we stayed up talking on your porch.

I keep reaching for my phone to send you a picture of the weird cloud outside, then stopping.

I made your favorite pasta for dinner and set the table for one without thinking twice.

There's a song playing in the grocery store that we danced to in your kitchen, and I stopped in the aisle.

I woke up this morning and your side of the bed was still perfectly made, and it hit me all over again.

I just sat down with my coffee and realized I was waiting for your voice to fill the silence before I took the first sip.

I keep staring at the map on my phone, tracing the route between us with my finger, and reminding myself that every mile is just space we're saving for later.

I started typing a message about how hard this is, then deleted it because I'd rather spend that energy imagining your face when we finally close the gap.

I keep glancing at my phone, not because I expect a text, but because seeing your name on the screen makes the room feel less empty.

I'm sitting in the car after work, not ready to go inside yet, and I just wanted you to know that even in this heavy moment, I'm choosing us.

I was folding laundry and found your hoodie in my pile. I held it for a minute before putting it back, and it reminded me why this wait is worth it.

I keep catching myself sighing for no reason, and I think it's just my body missing the sound of your breathing next to me.

I don't have the words to fix the ache right now, but I want you to know I'm still here, still holding on, still believing in the day this distance ends.