This was Cole's fortieth night of insomnia.
The room was completely dark. He lay in bed, the blanket cold on the side where there used to be another person's warmth.
He picked up his phone and kept reading back through eight years of messages, scrolling from the most recent upward.
The last time he had texted her first, before the breakup, was a month ago.
Cole: Can you grab milk on your way home.
He kept scrolling, slower and slower. One message had been sent at two in the morning, last winter.
Mia: Bad cold today. Head's pounding. You're probably still at the office. I made some ginger tea and left it in the insulated food container on the dining table. Remember to drink it when you get home. I can't stay up, going to sleep.
His reply had come the next morning at seven.
Cole: Got
