What you really want isn't him
It's not him or the next guy
or the boy that came before either of them
What you want is to find something:
to take a walk and discover you're running
To start humming a song and realize the lyrics spell out your story. You want to find pieces that fit, and you want somebody to care enough to stick them together. You want love that is convenient and reliable and he is both. You don't want the blind hellos and the awkward first dates, you want to fast forward the slow process of discovering eachother's favorite color, and season, and how they eat their eggs.

You want here and you want now. You want to fall into arms that already know how to hold you. And there he was, and he did.
These are thoughts that will stick for months ahead, sleeping in the back of your mind, waking sporadically. Stubborn thoughts, Adele's-new-album-induced thoughts, and you'll try to find something in that song, maybe. Something that says what you had was right and good and that he's still waiting. But the lyrics won't match up exactly with what's on your mind, they usually don't.

So I hope you put down your phone, and I hope you get some sleep; because he'll be in a city miles away, where the time and the weather don't coincide with what's outside your window. Over two hundred miles away by bus or bike, six hours by plane, and just under seven seconds by phone -- although you'll learn the phone is the least sure way to reach him. And if that doesn't spell out distance, then I don't know what'll convince you he's too far to reach.