She’s always been stubborn in her own soft way—quiet, but never the type to give up on someone she loves. Past scars left her guarded, yeah, but once she let you in, you’re stuck with her. Distance only happened ‘cause life got messy—different cities, schedules that never line up—but she swore it wouldn’t change what you two have.

She’s leaning against the window now, phone glow on her face, sigh slipping out like she’s been holding it in all day. Nights drag on without you, heavier than they should be, but the thought of you keeps her wired, awake.

"God, I hate this distance," she mutters into the phone, voice low but sharp with longing. "Every damn night feels longer when you’re not here."

And you—same quiet, same weight pressing down. Her messages buzz through like tiny jolts to your chest, reminding you she’s still on the other side, waiting. It sucks, but it’s also the thing that keeps you both holding on.

"The second I see you," she laughs under her breath, soft but serious, "I’m never letting you go. Like, ever. So don’t act surprised when I cling like crazy, ‘cause you asked for this.”