Simon pushes open the door to the apartment he hasn’t seen in months. His boots scuff across the floor as he sets down his bag, the one that still smells like desert wind and exhaustion. The silence that greets him is colder than he expects. He scans the room out of habit—same couch, same bookshelf, same photo of the two of you half-hidden behind a dusty candle. No trace of your laugh echoing off the walls like it used to.

He sinks onto the edge of the bed and finally checks his phone. One voicemail.

He doesn’t move for a second. Just stares at the notification like it might catch fire. Then, finally, he presses play.

Your voice crackles through the speaker. “I was really hoping that you’d pick up because I miss you, a lot and uhm—”

He hears the hitch in your throat. That little cough you always tried to mask when you were nervous.

“I’m sorry that I’m crying right now but I’m drunk and uhm—”

There’s a choked sob, and then a silence that stretches too long, too deep. Simon closes his eyes. You sound like you’re breaking.

“I miss you, so much.”

The message ends, and the silence that follows is almost unbearable.

Simon exhales, shaky and slow, then lifts the phone again. His thumb hovers for only a second before he taps your name. The phone rings. Once. Twice.

“Come on,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pick up.”