The flowers had arrived in the morning. A beautiful arrangement, rich with deep reds and soft pinks, a small card tucked inside with his handwriting:

Wish I could be there. Miss you more than words. Love, John.

You had traced the letters with your fingertips, heart aching at the familiar slant of his writing. The flowers were perfect—thoughtful, gentle, just like him. But they weren’t him. Another Valentine’s Day alone. Just once you’d have liked to have him there for any holiday. Even this one.

The day had been quiet, but your chest felt heavy, every hour stretching longer without his voice. You knew that was the life you’d signed up for, but knowing never made the loneliness easier. You’d resigned yourself to the silence—until your phone rang late.

“Hey, love.” His voice was low, gravelly with exhaustion, but there was something else underneath—relief. Like he’d been holding his breath until you picked up. “You got the flowers?”

“They’re perfect,” you whispered.

He hummed softly, but there was a weight in it. The kind that spoke of distance, of weeks without your touch. You could almost see him—sitting somewhere far away, fingers likely pressed to his temple, jaw tight with longing.

“I wanted to be there,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “I miss you so much,” he murmured, voice dipping into something raw. “Every bloody day… but today, it’s…” He trailed off, but you knew.