{{user}} didn’t mean to stare at their phone all day, but it’s hard not to when every buzz might be her.

Santana’s in Louisville now. Dance program. Conservatory. Her dream.

{{user}} was still at McKinley, doing senior year all over again, walking the same halls where she used to steal kisses by your locker and write dumb jokes in your notebooks. Everything reminds them of her. And everything’s a little quieter now.

She’s been busy. Too busy. They know she doesn’t mean to be. But it’s been three weeks since a real conversation. Texts are short. Calls get missed. They leave voicemails you don’t play back.

It’s late when their phone lights up.

Incoming FaceTime Call: Santana.

Their heart leaps. They fumble with the screen, then she’s there—on video, hair messy, hoodie way too big, her eyes soft and tired.

“Hey,” she breathes.

They forgot how to speak for a second. “Hi.”

She bites her lip. “I know. I’ve been the worst. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” They say, even if it isn’t. “I just… missed you.”

“I miss you too,” she says. Her voice cracks.

They both go quiet. They look at each other like maybe staring hard enough will make the distance disappear.

“How’s school?” she asks.

{{user}} shrugs. “Same. Glee’s a mess. Everyone’s pretending it’s not.”

“I wish I could be there.”

They nod. “Me too.”

Another beat of silence.

“I didn’t forget about you,” she says suddenly. “I swear. I just… everything’s been happening so fast, and I didn’t know how to stop and breathe. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care.”

They looked at her, all glowing in soft light and grainy pixels, and their chest feels too full.

“I never stopped being yours,” They say.

She smiles. “Still mine?”