The afternoon rain had begun to fall again—soft at first, like whispers against Evan's bedroom window. He sat at his desk, not working, not browsing, just… staring.
His phone lay beside him, screen dark.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Just silence.
He checked the time. 4:07 p.m.
Too early to text Lia—she was likely still in class or maybe helping her friend with lab work. He didn't want to seem clingy. Again.
But God, he missed her.
And not just in the romantic way.
He missed the way she used to complain about her tangled earbuds. The way she'd hum random anime songs mid-conversation. The way she always paused for one full second before answering a hard question—like she was choosing her words as if they were poetry.
---
It hadn't always been this heavy.
There was a time—years ago—when all this felt exciting.
---
Flashback, Two Years Ago
The day Evan first messaged her online.
He remembered it like a movie.
She had posted a photo of her cat sleeping on her textbook, with the caption:
> "How am I supposed to study like this??"
And Evan, half joking, half daring himself, replied:
> "Clearly the cat wants to be educated too."
He expected nothing.
But she replied ten minutes later.
> "Then you're saying I should let her take my finals?"
One message turned into two. Then ten. Then dozens.
By the end of that week, they were texting past midnight—about food, school, weird dreams, and how they both hated olives on pizza.
He remembered their first video call. How awkward he felt. How he sat up straighter the moment her camera turned on, even though she was in pajamas and messy hair.
How his heart skipped when she laughed for the first time.
He hadn't meant to fall for her.
But sometimes, it just... happens.
Like sunlight through clouds after days of rain.
---
The rain outside grew heavier. Evan finally picked up his phone and opened their chat.
> Last seen: 2 hours ago.
Still no message.
He started typing:
> "Thinking about you. I miss the way you used to..."
He stopped.
Backspaced.
Typed again.
> "Hey, I hope your day went okay."
He hit send. Short. Safe.
But she didn't reply.
---
An hour passed.
He made a cup of coffee, reheated some rice, picked at his leftover fried chicken. He turned on a podcast. Turned it off after five minutes.
The silence echoed louder than anything else.
Sometimes, loving someone from a distance didn't feel romantic. It just felt... lonely.
---
He sat back at his desk, pulled out a notebook, and started doodling random lines. Then—without meaning to—he wrote her name. Over and over again.
Then, just below that:
> "The longer we're apart, the more I fear... you'll learn how to live without me."
He closed the notebook quickly.
Too dramatic.
Too honest.
Too late.
---
That night, right before bed, his phone buzzed.
> Lia:
"Sorry, my head's all over the place lately."
"I miss talking to you like before."
"I'm just… tired, I guess. Not of you. Just… life."
Evan stared at the screen for a long time.
He wanted to say something deep. Reassuring. Romantic.
Instead, he typed:
> "Then let's be tired together. Call tomorrow?"
---
No reply.
But the little "typing..." bubble blinked.
Then stopped.
Then blinked again.
He smiled softly, closed his eyes, and whispered to no one:
> "I'll wait."