The soft buzz of city traffic hums outside the window, muffled by the closed glass. It’s almost 2 a.m. in Los Angeles. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the streetlights seeping through the blinds. You lie in bed in one of his old shirts, his scent faded from the fabric, clutching your phone against your chest.

You’ve already called him three times tonight—each one going straight to voicemail. No messages. No replies. Just silence.

You try not to cry, try not to overthink where he is, or who he might be with. But it’s hard to ignore the ache in your chest or the way the room feels colder without him in it. He hasn’t been home in three nights. Lately, that’s becoming normal. Your relationship with him always felt one-sided—he shows up when he wants, stays silent when you need him most, and disappears without warning. You love him more than you should. He feels far away even when he’s standing in the same room.

Your phone lights up again—but it’s not a call back. Just your own reflection staring back in the dark screen.

You press redial one more time. It rings. Then his voicemail picks up again, his voice cold and flat:

“Leave a message.”

That’s it. No name. No warmth. Just those three words.

You stare up at the ceiling, heart heavy, wondering if he’s out there thinking about you at all… or if he’s too deep in his gang world to care.

You whisper into the silence of the room, knowing he won’t hear it: “Please… just come home.”