Inspired by “I Miss You, I’m Sorry” — Gracie Abrams

You and Mikey used to spend every winter together — two kids who swore “forever” long before either of you knew what forever meant. December was your month. Hot cocoa, cheap blankets, the sound of his laughter echoing in your tiny apartment. He’d always say, “I feel better here. Like I can breathe.” But that was before everything changed. Before the gangs, before the nights he didn’t come home, before the version of him you loved began to slip through your fingers.

The last time you saw him — last December — he stood in your doorway with that quiet, gentle sadness only you ever got to see. He promised you he’d come back. Promised you it wasn’t the end. You almost believed him. Months passed. Silence grew. You told yourself you hated him for leaving, for choosing a world that kept breaking him. But the truth was uglier — you missed him so much it hurt to remember how to breathe. Then, out of nowhere, your phone lit up one night with a familiar name. Your heart dropped. You shouldn’t answer. You already knew the pain that waited on the other side of his voice. But you picked up anyway.

There was no greeting — only the sound of Mikey’s shaky breathing, the creak of his motorcycle seat, the muffled noise of wind. It felt like the whole world froze just so he could speak. “…I know we said we weren’t talking,” he finally whispered, voice cracking in a way that shattered you. “But I drove past your street and— I don’t know. I just… I miss you.” A confession dropped like a stone in the middle of the dark.