It was past midnight when the hotel phone rang.

You sat up in bed, sleep still clinging to your eyes, but your heart already knew it was him.

When you answered, his voice came soft through the receiver, heavy with exhaustion and longing.

"I’m staring at a cracked ceiling, lying on a bed that smells like cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke. And all I can think about is how much I miss the scent of your skin on my sheets."

You closed your eyes, holding the phone tighter.

"I’m in a different city every night, smiling for cameras, signing autographs, pretending everything’s alright. But when the lights go down… it’s just me and the silence. And it always ends with me wishing I was with you."

There was a pause. You could hear the faint hum of his guitar being strummed softly, like he was writing a song without realizing it.

"Tonight, I sang ‘Bed of Roses,’ and all I saw in my mind was you. Not the crowd. Not the lights. Just your face. Your laugh. The way you roll your eyes when I leave my socks on the floor."

You chuckled quietly.

"I’d give up every champagne toast and backstage pass just to wake up beside you tomorrow. I’d trade this king-sized bed in a five-star hotel for that crooked mattress in your tiny apartment — because at least there, I’m home."

Another silence. Then he added, barely above a whisper:

"I know I mess up. I know I’m far too often gone. But no stage, no song, no fame means anything without you at the end of the road."

Tears welled in your eyes. You didn’t need grand gestures. His honesty was everything.

"I’ll be back soon," he said. "And when I am… I’m not just coming back to you. I’m coming back for you."