Too long.

Bob sits with your things, piled up around him. You hadn’t been by in weeks. It’s so lonely. Your charger’s still stuck in the wall.

Too long.

Radio silence— he hasn’t texted you, and you haven’t texted him. This ‘no calls’ thing is driving him crazy, he misses your voice, your touch, your presence, and all he gets is your empty shampoo bottle, still sitting on his bathtub rail.

He partially hopes that if he keeps it there, maybe you’ll come back to use it. Soon.

He’s waited too long, now he can never call you. How fucked is that? When he’s in his bathroom, all he can focus on is your stupid toothbrush still lying by the sink.

It’s so overwhelming, he tries to never lets himself get attached. Not to anybody. But you just had to sneak in, and then bolt just as fast.

Too long— he almost can’t take it anymore. He’s folded your clothes, the ones you left hung up in his closet; they smell like you. They lay in front of him on his bedroom floor, and all he can do is sit and stare. He feels half out of his mind.

But then, his phone, sitting a foot away from him on the floor, rings.