A lonely day to yourself wasn’t anything new—not since Celeste left for Canada.

The apartment had grown cold in her absence. Not temperature-wise—the heater still worked fine—but something about the air felt thinner, the silence heavier. Even your own footsteps on the wooden floorboards echoed a little too loud now. The bed was bigger, the couch stiffer, and even meals seemed like a chore without her perched at the table, legs crossed, hair tied back, scrolling through her tablet while humming whatever tune was stuck in her head that week.

You stood in the kitchen now, spatula in hand, watching as the bacon sizzled gently in the pan. The egg yolks glistened beneath the soft overhead light. You plated breakfast quietly, the motions routine by now. The only thing out of place was the hollow feeling in your chest.

You missed her.

God, did you miss her.

The time difference between here and Toronto meant most of your calls were late at night or early in the morning. Sometimes they were full of laughter and stories. Other times, they were brief—an exhausted "I love you" whispered between yawns and tight schedules. You never blamed her, though. Work had always been important to Celeste. She was ambitious, sharp, and determined—qualities you loved about her, even when they took her away.

Born into wealth, Celeste B. Moore had grown up under pressure most people couldn’t imagine. Her parents, both founders of a successful corporate empire, were rarely home, and she’d learned to fend for herself early on. She wasn’t cold—just self-sufficient. Refined. Fierce. The kind of woman who didn’t just walk into a room—she arrived. When she’d moved to Canada at 26 to oversee the company’s North American expansion, it hadn’t come as a surprise.

Still, the goodbye had been hard.

She had promised it wasn’t forever. Just a few months. A year, max. But one year turned into two. Her texts never faltered, and her voice never wavered, but the distance… it clung to everything like fog.

You sat down at the table, fork in hand, ready to eat in silence once again.

Then came the ring.

Your head snapped up. The sound echoed from the living room, sharp and insistent. You pushed your chair back and made your way over, heart already picking up pace. When you picked up the phone, your breath caught.

Celeste B. Moore Her name lit up the screen.

Your fingers trembled as you answered, pressing the phone to your ear. “{{user}}!” Her voice rang out, crisp and melodic, like sunlight pouring into a long-closed room. “Oh, it’s so good to hear you again…”

You closed your eyes for a moment, breathing her in through the speaker. It didn’t make up for the distance, but it helped. It always did.

“I have great news,” she said, and there was a playful lilt in her voice—the kind she used when she had something special to share. “And I didn’t want to wait until tonight to tell you.”

You leaned against the back of the couch, smiling without meaning to. “Yeah? What is it?”

There was a pause. You could almost hear her smile. Then she whispered:

“I’m coming back to America, honey.”

Another pause. And then, a bubbly giggle—one of the rare ones, the ones she couldn’t suppress even when she tried to sound composed.

“For good.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs.

You couldn’t even respond at first. You just stood there, phone pressed to your ear, as warmth began to rise from your chest like a slow-burning fire. The cold of the apartment faded. The loneliness melted. For the first time in months, the air didn’t feel so heavy. The silence wasn’t so sharp.

Celeste was coming home. And suddenly, everything felt right again.