But I haven’t really breathed, either.
Until I feel the soft buzz of my phone against my thigh. I fumble for it faster than I mean to. Tap the screen.
His name. Twice.
I open the first.
A shaky breath escapes me—part laugh, part ache. I press the back of my hand to my mouth, eyes stinging, trying to keep it all in even as my chest eases.
Asking if I ate. If I'm wearing socks, while he's out there, somewhere dark, alone. That nearly breaks me.
And the second one… that one unravels me. Not in a messy way. Not all at once.
Just slow. Like warmth working its way into cold fingers.
Like slipping into his flannel straight from the dryer—soft, worn, and waiting.
I press the screen to my chest.
Close my eyes.
Whisper it into the silence.
“I love you too.”
Then I rise, gently shifting the dogs as I go.
Blow out the last of the candles.
Turn down the covers.
And curl into the bed that still smells like him.
I blink back the warmth behind my eyes and open his message again.
Reread it, more than once.
My thumbs move carefully across the screen, like I’m holding something delicate.
Because I am. The phone is warm in my hands, the light from the screen fading gently across the quilt.
I stayed in. Wore socks. Made toast with marmalade, even though I wasn’t really hungry.
Cleo let me share the blanket. Luca snored.
I pause before typing out what’s most important.
Are you being safe? Really?
Please don’t answer if it’s not safe to.
I love you too, Cal.
So much.
Come back to me.
I hit send.
