It hit you when she didn’t pick up the phone.

You were standing in your kitchen, phone pressed to your ear, listening to nothing but the quiet hum of the fridge. The fight wasn’t explosive — no yelling, no slamming doors. But it mattered. You said things you didn’t mean. Things that made her go still, made her eyes drop to the floor like you’d taken the wind out of her. And then she left.

You told yourself you needed space. Time. Whatever excuse made it feel less like losing her. But now it’s been days. And Claire hasn’t reached out.

The worst part? You’ve been out since then. Talked to people. Even flirted, like an idiot. Pretending like it didn’t ache. Like none of them had her soft voice, her art-stained fingertips, the way she laughed like she was shy about it. None of them felt like Claire.

You walked past her old playlist this morning, still saved on your phone. “Stephanie” played by accident — and it wrecked you. You remembered the way she hummed that song under her breath, when you two were painting, her legs tucked under her on your couch,all too comfortable and familiar, something mundane you terribly missed this last week.

And now you’re here. At her door. No grand speech. Just your hand hovering in the air, unsure if she’ll even open it. But you know one thing with bone-deep clarity:

It’s always been her.