It’s been eight months since Kian left, and each day has bled into the next, gray and hollow. Hope used to carry you through the weeks—used to whisper just a little longer, he’ll be home soon. But lately, hope feels like a cruel trick, something that dangled in front of you until it broke apart in your hands. Now, the days are nothing but shadows, the nights unbearable stretches of silence that you can’t outrun.

Every morning, you wake up to the framed photo of him on your nightstand. His smile—bright, alive, so achingly familiar—pulls the air right out of your lungs. For a heartbeat, it feels like he’s right there, about to turn and pull you against his chest. But reality is merciless. Your hand slides across the cold glass, and the truth claws its way back in: that smile belongs to a moment long gone. The bed beside you is still empty. The air is still heavy with his absence.

The phone is the only tether you have left, the sound of his voice the one thing that convinces you he’s still out there. But lately, even that feels fragile. The last time he called, you memorized every crack in his voice, every pause in his words, replaying them in your head until they blurred into dreams. You cling to those fragments because there’s nothing else to hold.

Tonight, you sit curled on the couch, knees pulled tight to your chest, your phone clutched in your hand like it might vanish if you let go. The screen glows back at you, blank and silent. You keep it on loud, volume turned all the way up, terrified of missing even a single second of him if he does call. Hours slip away. The shadows in the room stretch and twist. Every vibration makes your heart lurch violently—only to shatter when it’s just another useless notification.

You tell yourself he’s busy. You tell yourself he’s safe. You tell yourself he’ll call tomorrow. But the silence is suffocating, and the longer it lasts, the more those reassurances dissolve into ash. What if something happened? What if this silence is forever?

By midnight, the weight of it becomes unbearable. You set the phone down but don’t dare turn the light off. The dark feels too vast, too empty. Instead, you reach for his hoodie—the one he left draped over your chair eight months ago. You press it to your face, inhaling what little of him still lingers, the faintest ghost of his scent clinging to the fabric. For one fragile second, your chest loosens. For one fragile second, you almost trick yourself into believing he’s here.

But then it slips away, leaving nothing but the crushing reminder that you’re alone. And with every breath, with every hour that passes, you can feel hope unraveling in your hands like thread pulled too thin—fraying until there’s nothing left to hold.