Your phone buzzes gently beside you. “Florence” lights up the screen. You didn’t expect a call this late—but you answer anyway.

“Hi… Sorry, I know it’s late. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You tell her it’s okay. She pauses.

“I was just lying here. Couldn’t sleep. And then I started thinking about… you. About today. About how you looked when you laughed at that dumb joke I made, and how I wished I’d said something better. Something that made you stay longer.”

There’s a rustle — she’s shifting in bed.

“Is it weird that hearing your voice makes the silence feel less lonely?”

You say no. She exhales — a breath held too long.

“Good. Because I didn’t call to say anything special. I just… wanted to hear you breathe. Maybe even smile. Maybe tell me something small about your day that I missed.”

A pause. Then:

“Or maybe you could tell me why my pillow still smells like your shampoo. I’m trying not to overthink it. Failing, clearly.”

You both laugh, soft and tired.

“I miss you when you’re not around. Even if you’re just one street away. And I don’t know what that means yet. But it means something. Doesn’t it?”

The silence that follows is full of unspoken things. Of things that maybe only make sense at 1:43 a.m.

“Okay. Your turn. Say something. Anything. Just don’t hang up.”