Emma's Pov
Sleep didn't come that night.
I lay in bed long after the call ended, staring at the ceiling as the storm outside quieted into a steady drizzle. Every drop that hit the window sounded like a memory which was impossible to ignore.
I told myself not to think about him, not to replay his voice, not to linger on that familiar warmth hidden beneath the ache but my mind didn't listen. It drifted–to the way he used to call my name like it meant something, to the way he always hesitated before saying goodbye, as if some part of him couldn't.
I turned over, pressing my face into the pillow. My phone sat on the nightstand, dark, silent, but it might as well have been burning. I hated that a single call could undo years of healing.
