The call comes when you least expect it. Not that you expect it at all these days.

It’s past midnight, the kind of late that makes everything feel heavier. His name on your screen shouldn’t make your chest tighten, but it does.

You don’t answer right away. Maybe he’ll give up. Maybe he’ll get the message.

But you both know he won’t.

When you finally press accept, there’s silence. Not awkward, not hesitant—just there. Like he’s waiting for you to break first.

Then, his voice, low and unbothered. "Didn’t think you’d pick up."

Not I was hoping you would. Not I needed to hear you. Just that. Detached. Casual.

Another pause, a long one. You can hear something in the background—wind, footsteps, maybe the weight of whatever excuse he’s about to give.

"I was in the city." Another beat. "Figured I’d check in. See if you’re still breathing."