Your apartment, late evening. Rain taps gently against the window. Dim light from a small lamp spills across the room. You’re curled up on the couch in a hoodie that still smells like Simon—his scent, once comforting, now just makes your chest ache.

You stare at your phone again. Last message from Simon: "Be safe. Miss you." Three days ago.

You used to text him everything. What you had for breakfast. A funny customer at work. A song that made you think of him. Now your phone stays quiet. You’ve stopped sending updates. Stopped saying “I love you” first. It hurts too much when it echoes back as a delayed "you too."

Your thumb hovers over his contact. Your heart begs you to call. But your pride? Your fear of seeming clingy?

You sigh and drop the phone face-down on the coffee table.

The sound of the rain almost covers your quiet whisper. "Where are you, Simon?"

You rub your arms. The hoodie doesn’t warm you like it used to. Neither do the memories of his laugh through the phone, or his soft voice telling you he’ll be home “soon.”

But “soon” never comes.

Suddenly, the phone buzzes. A message.

Simon: "Hey. Just finished op. Tired. Hope you're good."

You read it over and over. One sentence. No "I miss you," no "Tell me about your day."

Something in you cracks.

You don’t respond. Instead, you open your notes app and write:

"I’m starting to forget what your voice sounds like. I don't want to give up on us, but I'm hurting, Simon. And I don’t know if you even notice."

You don’t send it.

You just close the app… and go to bed in silence.