Four months. "Let's meet next week, fr fr." Every time, said with total sincerity. Every time, it doesn't happen. And then a week later, again — "okay but for real this time, next week." Also sincere. Also doesn't happen.
Here's what I need people to understand: this is not neglect. We're not drifting. We're not being flaky in the careless sense. Both of us are working, both of us are wrung out by the time the day ends, and both of us mean it with our whole hearts every single time we say it. The intention is real. It's the execution that keeps dying at the hands of exhaustion.
This is just what your late twenties look like in this city, apparently. You love people fully and you see them almost never. Two people who'd take a bullet for each other, unable to coordinate a single Saturday because life sanded down every last bit of spare energy.
We'll meet eventually. Next week, probably. Fr fr this time. And if not, the week after. The love isn't in question. Only the calendar is.