The nights always feel longer without him.

I lie on my bed, phone in hand, the screen casting a pale, blue light across my face, causing my eyes to burn. I've been in this position for hours, scrolling through our old messages — the jokes that made me laugh, the heart emojis he sent when he thought I was asleep, the good mornings and good nights that felt like promises.

But tonight, as it had been for the past three weeks, I had none of that. Just silence. Heavy and loud.

I exhale slowly, pressing the phone to my chest, as if that might close the distance. As if it could pull him back. But it doesn’t. He’s still a thousand miles away, living a life I can’t be a part of— at least, not in the way I want.

We promised each other it wouldn’t be this hard. At the airport, when his arms were around me and I could feel his warm breath against my hair, we said all the things people say when they’re trying to be brave - ‘It’s just for a while’. ‘We’ll talk every day’. And I really wanted to believe it. With the whole of my heart, I wanted it to be true, but no one tells you how lonely every day can feel, how hard it becomes to keep those promises.

I stand and walk to the window, folding my arms tight around myself, wishing they weren't mine. The street outside is quiet, washed in the dull, amber glow of streetlights. I wonder if he’s looking at the sky where he is.

He probably wasn't. He never did things that seemed like a waste of time. The thought made me smile a bit.

If he were here right now, he would probably twist his face in confusion. Those features I had come to be so familiar with helping him express his disinterest.

“Why are you looking outside, for God's sake? Did you keep anything there?” He would say, and I would probably laugh and leave the window to stay at his side - where he always wanted me.

It’s the small things I miss most — the way his hand always found mine, how he tilted his head when he laughed. I miss how safe it felt just to sit beside him in silence. But now, silence feels like a punishment.

My phone buzzes.

“Hey. You awake?”

My breath catches and my fingers move faster than my heart, faster than my brain can even process. “Yeah.”

A call comes through almost immediately. I answer before the first ring finishes.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and warm, just the way I remember.

“Hey.”

And there it is — that aching relief. I close my eyes at the sound of him, letting it settle into my bones.

“I miss you,” I whisper.

“I miss you too,” he says. “So much.”

We fall quiet, listening to each other breathe. It isn’t the same as having him here, but it’s enough to hold on to. For now.

And sometimes, that’s what love is — the space between longing and hope, where even the silence says, ‘I’m still here.’