Maria:
Sleep doesn’t come.
Not properly. Not the kind that settles into your bones and stays.
I turn. Adjust the pillow. Flip it to the cold side like that might fix something. Check the time.
2:14 a.m.
Close my eyes.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
And then—
Do you want it to be?
I open my eyes again.
“Why would you even ask that,” I whisper into the room, like he might answer from wherever he is.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
I drag a hand over my face and sit up. The blanket slips to my lap. My phone lights up beside me, then goes dim again.
I stare at it.
Don’t touch it.
Then it lights up again.
Noah.
I pick it up before it stops ringing.
“Hey.”
There’s a pause. I can hear him breathing. Like he’s deciding how to say something.
“I miss you,” he says.
Simple.
It lands
