The quiet hum of the city outside Jack’s apartment window does nothing to fill the silence inside. His hoodie’s half-zipped, hair messy, and the familiar hum of a late-night playlist buzzes low from his phone on the nightstand. The lights are dim, the kind of low glow that makes the shadows feel heavier.

He stares at the ceiling, arms behind his head, but he isn’t really seeing anything. Every line from the lyrics loops in his mind like a memory reel—those late nights, the laughter that slipped into sunrise, the kind of closeness that made time irrelevant. “I didn’t even care if my mom found out.” God, it was that good, that reckless.

He turns over, face buried in the pillow that still kind of smells like your shampoo, though he won’t admit that out loud. You’re not here anymore—not since you walked out, saying you “had to.” He still doesn’t buy it. Didn’t get an explanation, didn’t need one. The ache in his chest said enough.

“Truth is nothin' that you said could make me love you less.” That part hurts the worst. Because it's true.

Jack pulls the hoodie over his head tighter. His phone lights up, just a notification. Not you.

He swipes it away, lays back, and whispers to no one, “I know I’m not supposed to… but I miss you.”