Hyoma knows he shouldn’t be texting you. He doesn’t have the right, not anymore, but the silence feels unbearable. He misses your voice—your voice, the one that always grounded him. He misses the way your fingers would weave through his hair, the way your smile could chase away any lingering doubt, the way you smelled, like something soft and familiar that he’s somehow forgotten how to live without.

It feels pathetic, especially since he’s the one who ended it.

“Hey,” he types, trying to sound casual, like he hasn’t been thinking about you non-stop. “Are you busy right now?”

He hopes you’re not. Just one last conversation, just one last glimpse of you, and maybe he can let go. He tells himself it’s the last time, promises himself he’ll move on after this. But deep down, he knows he might never want to.