Hungry for you

Chapter One – He Forgot Me

Love isn’t supposed to feel like this.

That’s the thought I keep circling back to, the one that sticks like a splinter in the quiet. Love isn’t supposed to be an ache, a waiting room where the minutes drag on forever. It isn’t supposed to feel like staring at a glowing phone screen until my eyes blur, praying for a message that might not come.

But that’s all Eli and I are anymore—pauses. Apologies typed too late. Empty sentences that don’t carry the weight they used to. Sorry. Long day.

He used to say more. God, he used to say everything.

I remember his voice notes at three in the morning, when the distance between us felt unbearable and he couldn’t fall asleep without hearing me laugh. I remember the way he called me “sunshine,” not once or twice, but until I started to believe that was who I was to him—the one who lit his shadows. I remember how he used to FaceTime me from airport lounges, messy hair falling into his eyes, telling me he couldn’t wait to be done with the business trips, couldn’t wait to come back home to me.

That was love. That was us.

Now I get scraps. A text the next morning if I’m lucky. Morning. Talk later. Or Sorry, fell asleep. His voice, once a constant thread tying me back to him, has been reduced to phone static. Calls that cut out, words that sound practiced, rushed. His “I love you” now feels like an obligation, something tacked on at the end of a call like a signature at the bottom of a contract.

I scroll through our old conversations like an addict shaking the bottom of an empty pill bottle. His words used to be fire—playful, hungry, alive. I miss your face. Send me a picture. You’re too far away. Can’t stop thinking about you.

Now? Now they’re paper-thin. Messages that could belong to anyone, to no one.

The silence of the apartment presses down on me, thick and heavy. I curl up on the couch, blanket tight around my shoulders, phone balanced against my chest. The clock on the wall ticks too loudly, taunting me with every second that passes without him. Nights like this, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling like I’m suffocating inside my own skin.

I check my phone again—nothing.

And that’s when my mind betrays me.

It doesn’t conjure Eli’s laugh. It doesn’t summon the sound of him calling me sunshine, or the weight of his hand at the back of my neck when he kissed me the first time. No, my mind flashes with something more dangerous.

Ian.

I tell myself he’s just a friend. A friend of a friend. Someone who started showing up at the edges of my life until he wasn’t at the edges anymore. He was just… there. And now, I can’t stop noticing him.

The way his eyes linger when I chew the inside of my cheek—my nervous tell, the one I thought no one ever saw. The way he comments on how slow I drink my coffee, dragging each sip like I’m trying to stretch comfort out of a cup. The way he listens. Not just to what I say, but to what I don’t.

That’s what unsettles me most. Ian notices the spaces between.

Eli used to.

The memory cuts sharp.

I almost laugh at myself, bitter and small. Comparing my boyfriend—the man I’ve loved for years—with someone who isn’t mine, who shouldn’t even matter. But I can’t help it.

The other day, Ian made me laugh. Not the polite kind of laugh I offer strangers or coworkers to smooth out awkward silence. A real laugh, the kind that rattled through my chest, that felt like a piece of me I thought I’d lost. I can’t even remember what the joke was, but I remember the sound leaving me—and the way his eyes locked on me after.

Not glancing. Not casual. But holding. Like I was the only thing worth seeing.

And I didn’t look away fast enough.

That moment has been haunting me ever since. It made me feel exposed, like I’d been standing naked in the middle of a crowded street. Seen in a way I haven’t been seen in months. Maybe years.

Guilt claws up my throat, thick and sour. Because I’m not free. I still belong to Eli, don’t I? Even if he feels like he’s slipping further away with every unanswered call, every long silence.

The blanket suffocates me. I shove it off, my legs restless, my heart racing in a way I can’t explain. My mind clings to memories of Eli, desperate for something real to hold onto—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his arms around me, the way he promised forever when it was just the two of us against the dark.

But even those memories feel faded now, like old photographs left too long in the sun.

And then there’s Nate.

Nate, who has been around for as long as I can remember. Nate, who’s always hovered a little too close, who’s always had this unspoken something hanging between us. He’s never said it outright, but I’ve felt it—the way his eyes linger a second too long, the way his touches last just a fraction too much.

He’s the safe one. The dependable one. The one who’s been there to pick up my pieces more times than I care to count.

And lately, I can feel his patience wearing thin. Like he’s waiting for me to admit what he’s always wanted me to see—that he’s here, Eli is not, and Ian is… dangerous.

I sigh, rubbing my hands over my face. Three men. Three different pulls.

Eli—the anchor I’m still tied to, even as the rope frays.

Nate—the steady shadow at my back, always watching.

Ian—the spark I shouldn’t want, the fire I can’t seem to put out.

My phone buzzes.

My heart leaps before I can stop it, a stupid reflex, hope rushing too fast through my veins. I expect Eli. I want Eli.

And this time… it is him.

Eli: Sorry, can’t talk. Long day. Miss you.

The words hit me like cold water. They’re what I’ve been waiting for, what I should be grateful for—but they don’t soothe me. They don’t touch the hunger clawing inside me.

Because they feel recycled. Like the kind of thing you’d type with one eye on your inbox, one hand on your coffee, no thought, no weight.

I type back quickly anyway. It’s okay. I miss you too.

I stare at the screen, waiting, praying for three little dots. For more. For anything.

Nothing.

The silence screams louder than the words did.

I toss the phone aside, pressing my palms into my eyes. I should go to bed. I should force myself to sleep, shove down this ache until morning.

But then the phone buzzes again.

My heart kicks. Eli? Did he finally—

No.

It’s Ian.

You awake?

Three words. That’s it. But they hit differently.

I freeze, throat tightening. The glow of the screen feels like a trap, a cliff edge I shouldn’t step toward. I know what this is. I know what it could become if I let it.

But my body already knows my answer.

Yeah. Can’t sleep.

The dots appear instantly. My breath catches. He was waiting.

Same. Want to talk?

My stomach flips. This is it—the line. I can close the door, pretend I never saw it, force myself to keep waiting for Eli. Or I can step across into something I don’t fully understand, something I’m not sure I can ever take back.

My thumb hovers. Guilt claws at me. But desire pulls harder.

Finally, I type: Sure.

The dots reappear, quick and certain.

And just like that, the night shifts.

The silence isn’t empty anymore. It hums. It vibrates. It feels alive.

I press the phone against my chest, staring into the dark. My heart is pounding, my pulse racing like I’ve already done something unforgivable.

Maybe I have.

Because tonight, I’m not waiting for Eli anymore.

Not tonight.