There's a strange disconnect when you live outside the capital.

Last night, Tehran and Isfahan launched missiles. The news reached us the same way it reached everyone else—through phone screens and grainy videos. State television broadcast it with triumphant music. Telegram channels filled with footage from Lebanon, from Haifa, from the night sky lit up with fire.

But here, in my part of Iran, the physical distance from those launch sites creates an illusion of safety. We didn't hear the missiles. We didn't feel the ground shake. Life this morning looks almost normal—people going to work, shops opening, children walking to school.

Almost normal.

Except everyone is talking about it. My landlord knocked this morning to ask if I'd seen the news. The woman at the corner store was glued to her phone, refreshing updates. Even the older men at the tea shop, usually concerned only with local gossip, were debating what comes next.

"They say it's over," one man said.

"It's never over," another replied.

He's right, of course. It's never over because the regime never stops. They escalate, they provoke, they launch missiles, and then they tell us we should be proud. Meanwhile, the rial continues its freefall, unemployment climbs, and young people keep leaving the country when they can.

I think about the people in Haifa who woke up to air raid sirens last night. I think about the families who had to run to shelters. I think about whoever was underneath those missiles that weren't intercepted.

And I think about us. The millions of Iranians who didn't choose this, who don't want this, but who will pay for it nonetheless.

From my window, I can see the Alborz mountains in the distance. They're the same mountains that separate me from Tehran, from Isfahan, from the power centers where decisions like last night's are made.

It's not enough distance.

It's never enough distance.