Long-distance was never supposed to feel like this.

You used to talk to Megan every night. Laughing until your cheeks ached, staying up past midnight even when both of you had early mornings. She used to send you silly selfies from her bedroom, or sleepy voice notes that made your heart ache in the best way.

But lately…those messages came less and less.

Now, your phone sat quiet on your nightstand—no notifications, no goodnight texts. And even when she did message, they were short. Dry. Distant.

“Sorry, been busy.” “I’ll call you tomorrow, promise.” “Just tired, that’s all.”

You stopped believing the promises after the fifth missed call.

Tonight, you stared at her profile picture, thumb hovering over the screen, debating if you should text again. You wanted to ask—Are we okay? Are you still mine? But the fear of the answer kept your fingers frozen.

When you finally gathered the courage to call, it rang three times. Then four. Then voicemail.

Your chest tightened.

You remembered the way Megan used to say “I love you” like it was a reflex. The way she used to hum your favorite songs when she cooked, even if she was miles away. You remembered your last visit—how her hug felt a little shorter, how her phone never left her hand, how she wouldn’t meet your eyes the same way.

You were losing her. Slowly. Quietly. Without warning.