The screen of his phone glows in the dark, illuminating his tired face. His fingers hover just above the screen, trembling with hesitation. The familiar name sits atop his contact list, a reminder of everything you both were and what you became. He thinks about messaging you. There’s a gnawing feeling inside his chest—a pull towards the past he knows he should resist, yet it keeps tugging at him. But then there’s the doubt.

The memories rush back. He remembers the late nights—those hazy hours where exhaustion blurred into something else entirely. The whispered arguments, the way you’d offer forgiveness, and the desperate silences that stretched out between you. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He thought things would get better once you were gone, that he’d finally find some peace without the constant ups and downs. He was wrong.

There’s an emptiness now, a void in his bed where you used to be. The sheets are cold, untouched. He blinks, his vision slightly blurred—he’s probably been staring at the screen for too long again. It’s always the same cycle. The urge to reach out, to hear your voice, followed by the crushing realization that things might never really change. Is it worth it? His mind screams at him to let it go, but his heart aches for something else. It’s not just about missing you. It’s about missing what you both used to be—before everything fell apart.

But then he remembers the toxicity. The way every moment of affection seemed to come at a price. The late-night loathing, morning smoking. He had started to feel like a stranger in his own life—trapped, confused. And now, here he is again, alone with his thoughts. The cheap, top-heavy lamp in the corner of the room casts a dim light, the only light left in his life. How did it come to this? He wonders if reaching out would do anything at all—if maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.

The doubt never leaves him. He closes his eyes, wrestling with the same question as always. Would it be worth it?