Your phone buzzed at 1:43 AM. You stared at the screen for a long time, like maybe if you didn’t move, it would go away. Rafe. After five months. Five months of silence, of learning how to live without the sound of his laugh, without the weight of his body beside you. Five months of convincing yourself that love wasn’t supposed to hurt like that.

You shouldn’t have answered. You knew what hearing his voice would do to you.

But you did.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Just the sound of your breathing, stretched thin across the distance.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “It’s me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. You knew that voice better than your own heartbeat.

“Rafe… what are you doing?” you whispered.

He laughed, quiet and broken. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t be calling. I just… I saw your favorite movie on TV and— God, it hurt.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold it together. “You’re high?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not tonight. Not for weeks, actually. I’m trying.”

Your throat tightened. Now. He was trying now. After all the nights you cried yourself to sleep. After all the times you begged him to choose you over the drugs.

“I couldn’t watch you drown,” you said softly. “Even when I loved you more than I loved myself.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I hated you for leaving… until I realized you were the only one who ever really stayed.”

Silence. Heavy and aching.

“You still wear the necklace?” he asked, voice barely there.

Your hand instinctively brushed your collarbone. You were still wearing it.

“I shouldn’t,” you said.

“But you do.”

You swallowed. “Why are you calling me, Rafe?”

A pause. Long enough to hurt.

“Because I still dream about you, baby,” he said. “And I needed to hear your voice before I tried to forget it.”