PART 1 - THE MOTHER

The map says it is five hundred miles from here to home.

But maps lie.

They cannot measure fear.

They cannot count the quiet ache of missing someone.

Tonight, the city hums like it is holding its breath. A car horn blares too loudly. Someone laughs by the sidewalks. The aroma of cooking from the neighbor's apartment lingers, faint but comforting.

I closed my eyes for a second and imagined my child smelling the aroma of the same garlic fried rice I cook back home, safe, and warm.

War does not arrive with explosions. Sometimes it whispers. It creeps into the flow of your day. The small adjustments: lowering your voice, checking the phone for every ten minutes, staring out the window at the streets that could flare up at any given moment.

I call home.

Ring…ring…ring.

The camera faces the kitchen wall.

Ring…ring…ring.

I make sure they do not see the tension in my hands.

Ring…ring…ring.

“Ayos lang ako dito,” I say.

My eyes travel across oceans, skies, cities I cannot pronounce, and roads I have never seen.

Technology makes the world small, they say.

But loves to measure distance differently.

Five hundred miles away from home feels like a heartbeat stretched across the continents.

Before hanging up the call, my child asks the same question.

“Mama, kailan ka po uuwi? Miss na po kita.”

I looked at the ceiling. The lights flickered.

“Malapit na, ’nak,” I tell.

A lie.

It was necessary, just so my child would not worry.

Sometimes, when the sirens start, I remember a line from a song I once heard from a radio.

But I could walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more…

The singer made it joyful, simple. But loyalty is not always walking towards someone. Sometimes it is staying far away, so they never hear the bombs, the missiles, so their child can sleep and eat in peace, while you carry the gap alone.

I imagine them lying in bed now, staring at the ceiling above their room, counting the miles that separates us, counting my absence like a shadow sticking to them everywhere.

I whisper in the air: I love you, I will come home soon.

PART 2 - THE CHILD

Tonight, I watched the ceiling fan spinning above my head. Somewhere far away, my mother might also be staring at her own ceiling too, listening to the faint buzz of her city, thinking of me.

In school, teachers taught us how to measure distance: meters, kilometers, miles.

But numbers do not explain the feeling of longing for someone you miss dearly.

Headlines flashed.

“U.S-Israel vs Iran Conflict”

The news stated that there were conflicts in the Middle East. The reporter mentioned cities I have never heard of, circling them like targets in the globe.

My stomach dropped.

I immediately thought of my mother.

I checked my phone quickly, waiting for a familiar ping.

I waited for a few minutes, staring at my screen.

No notification.

No message.

None.

I tried to visualize what five hundred miles look like. It sounds small when you say it out loud. But when the house is quiet, when I am alone and can only hear my own breathing, five hundred miles feels endless.

Only three words.

Three words that extend beyond oceans, time zones, missed calls, and worries.

My mother tells me everything is fine. Adults say that a lot. They lie often. They say the same line: do not worry, like words automatically build strong walls that protect them from danger out there.

Sometimes, I imagine walking those five hundred miles myself—through airports, that smell of antiseptic, crowded buses, long lines, dry heat, the rustle of air conditioners in apartments I cannot enter. Across the continents, the borders, the cities, until I reach her, my mother.

Until I reach the place where she stands, worn, tired, carrying the miles in every inch of her body, and finally say the only thing I can:

“Thank you for loving me this far, mama. You can come home now.”

And for that moment, the distance disappears.

The Frontman