Four years.

Four years of waiting.

Sixteen seasons of phone calls, letters and late night talks.

Fourty-eight months of perfectly timed phone calls, down to the very last second: 8:00 every day- the only time they both had free time at a reasonable hour. She even figured out how to see him through magic, though it took a lot of power on both of their parts and practically sent them into comas afterwards. As a result they only did it on special occasions, like their anniversary.

One thousand four hundred and sixty days of secrets shared- she always told him what she did that day, down to the very last second. She always thought he would find it boring, but for some reason he always loved that part of their conversations- it made him feel like he was with her.

One hundred and ninety two weeks of synchronized laughter. His voice got deeper by the day, his laughs lowering in pitch, until the deep baritone rumble sent shivers down her spine.

Eighty thousand, six hundred and forty minutes of shared fantasies. She always imagined their reuniting. Imagined it in every season and weather- from the warm summer breeze on their cheeks to the chilling winter air cutting through their clothing, making their noses a bright red, the cool pounding of the rain against her clear umbrella to the blistering heat of the drought season- even the wildest blizzards and wind storms. She imagined it all, and told him. He would insert certain details, add certain moods and at the end of each folly they would agree it was perfect.

Four million, eight hundred thirty-eight and four hundred seconds of whispered, "I love you"s in the night. He loved it when she whispered those words in that tired, slightly husky voice as she matured, her squeaky speech turning warm and smooth, like honey dripping on sweet bread. He would tell her this and she would blush, telling him that his voice was like velvet running over her bare skin and she couldn't wait until she could hear it in person. Their conversations became more sensual as the days passed, their words no longer expressing the innocent love they shared, but a rawer, deeper-set feeling. She no longer allowed her father to listen in, choosing to hide in the farthest corner of her room with the door closed instead- when asked about their conversations now, she no longer gushed about every detail, but rather skimmed over the entire thing, and when pressed for more, she would sharply remark that their words were private and not meant to be shared.

Their first meeting in four years was more spectacular than they could even imagine, the lighting just right, the weather warm and the look on her face… perfect. She finally got to feel the rumble of his chest as he spoke when he held her and he could finally feel the softness of her skin, even through her school uniform.

All the years, days, months, weeks, seasons, hours, minutes, seconds that passed, all led up to that moment. It was perfect… and every moment belonged to them.