He stood far away. Geography was a fact. Time had reality. And they worked against him. But these are not the fact that was on his hook, only a part of its current texture. This fact he knows is inescapable, its barb is sunken deep. He could run but its grip on his heart would never relent. The line would play out. It could be the light tugging bob of a sunfish or the heavy thrusting run of a barracuda but it would be there. The cold hard fact will remain as the line's friction cutting into his hands, and the heat it generates in him will burn until he can pull it in.
So accommodation must be made. Whatever it takes, whatever it pulls from his resources, whatever the penalty, he knows it's worth- he goes to her. The fact is undeniable and pervasive.
But then he had to leave, and it was a long, hard sentence of isolation. Now the frozen, shattering fact is like granite, solid ice. Pain it will bring, and winter of hardship will topple on him. It is just one Fact. But, more it means a certain thaw will come, an undeniable spring of burgeoning delight, and already it has brought a summer memory soft, as it is an autumn of hope and joy and bright color. There is no contradiction to this. All can be encompassed in the richness of the one fact. He calls her to him. The fact just is.