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The worst part about nights wasn't the silence.
It was the waiting.
The kind where your phone is face-up on your chest, brightness turned all the way up like that somehow makes a text come faster. Like if you stare hard enough, you can force his name to pop up.
2:17 a.m.
She should've been asleep hours ago. They both should've.
Because this was their thing.
Every night, no matter what happened—arguments, attitudes, dry texting, misunderstandings—they always ended the same way.
On the phone. Together. Falling asleep.
But tonight?
Nothing.
She tapped her screen again, even though she already knew what it would show. No missed calls. No "you up?" No "call me."
Just... nothing.
Her thumb hovered over his name.
She could call him.
And that was the problem.
Because she always could.
She could always be the one to fix it, to reach out, to pretend like everything was okay just to get back to how it felt when he was calling her "baby" like it actually meant something.
Her friends would say, "If he wanted to, he would."
But they didn't hear the way his voice softened late at night. They didn't see the way he looked at her in the hallway. They didn't know how real it felt... when it was just them.
Her phone lit up.
Her heart jumped so fast it almost hurt.
But it wasn't him.
Of course it wasn't.
She locked her phone and turned onto her side, pulling the blanket tighter around her like it could fill the space he left tonight.
