You remember the day she came back. The world had mourned her, a statue in a harbor, a symbol of sacrifice. You had mourned her, a hollow space in your apartment, in your bed, in your chest. Then, the news reports: a blur of red and blue and gold, deflecting a missile over the Aegean. Wonder Woman was alive.

For a week, you existed in a state of suspended, breathless hope. You left voicemails you knew she wouldn’t check. “Diana… just… call me. Please.” You sent texts into the void. You stared at your phone until the screen went dark.

The first time you saw her was on television. She was in Kahndaq, standing between two armies, her lasso a brilliant, blinding gold. She looked regal. Untouchable. She looked like she’d never shared your takeout on the couch, never laughed until she snorted at a bad movie, never traced the scar on your shoulder with a tenderness that made you feel like the most important man in any world.

The irritation started small, a quiet, persistent buzz beneath the relief. You’d watch the news, see her pulling a cruise ship from a maelstrom or debating in the United Nations, and your thumb would hover over her contact. She’s saving the world, you’d tell yourself. What’s your problem?

But your problem was the silence. It was the unreturned calls that slowly shifted your worry from “Is she hurt?” to “Does she remember?” It was the way your grief, once a raw and open wound, began to scar over with a thin layer of exasperation. You’d imagine her hearing your voice, seeing your name flash on some Justice League-issued communicator, and choosing to swat it away like a minor nuisance. A demigoddess has no time for a mortal’s heartache.

You tried to hold on. You’d visit the memorial they hadn’t yet taken down, touch the cold marble of her effigy, and remember the warmth of her skin. But the memory began to feel like a story you’d read about someone else. The man who loved Wonder Woman. It was a beautiful, tragic prologue. But her story had continued without you.

The chasm didn’t form from a single argument or a moment of betrayal. It was carved by a thousand small absences. The birthday you spent alone. The night you got promoted and had no one to tell who would truly understand what it meant. The slow realization that while you were waiting for her to come back to you, she had, in every way that mattered, already left.

She came back from the dead. But she didn’t come back to you. And somewhere, in the quiet space between a missed call and a saved world, you stopped waiting for her to.