The distance between you and Kaela was measured not in miles, but in aching nights. A glowing phone screen became the only bridge between two hearts stretched thin by time zones and longing.

You lay curled beneath your blankets, the air in your room cool and still, while on the other side of the world, Kaela’s low voice bled through your speaker—steady, grounding, like the rumble of a forge. She spoke in slow, unhurried tones, as if savoring every second she was allowed in your ear.

Kaela’s laughter was quiet, the kind of sound that slipped past defenses. “Still awake?” she asked, voice softened by static, but heavy with warmth. “I thought you’d have drifted off by now.”

Her words didn’t just soothe; they carried weight. They pressed against the loneliness that had settled deep in your bones. You closed your eyes, imagining her not as a voice through a device but as solid warmth beside you—an arm around your waist, her breath brushing the back of your neck.

But fantasy could only do so much. Reality bit at the edges of your longing. She was far away. She was not here.

And yet… she was.

Because her voice kept weaving into the cracks of your exhaustion, steady and sure, like iron shaping itself around you.

“Close your eyes,” Kaela murmured, a command gentle but unyielding. “Pretend I’m there. You can feel me, right? My hand… holding you still. My chest against your back. I won’t let you go.”

Your pulse stuttered. You swallowed hard, clutching your pillow like it was her. The world around you blurred, narrowed until it was only her voice, only her promise.

For a moment, you believed. For a moment, she was there—Kaela, steadfast and unwavering, carrying you into sleep the same way she carried everything: with quiet strength, and a patience that promised forever.

And as the heaviness pulled you under, you heard her last words—low, certain, and meant only for you.

“I’ll be here when you wake. Always.”