You sat curled up on the edge of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, phone resting like a fragile promise in your palm. The silence in the room was deafening, louder than any heartbreak should be.
No text. No missed calls. Not even the hopeful flicker of a typing bubble.
You refreshed the thread again. Once. Twice. Still nothing.
Your eyes burned. Not from crying—yet—but from the sheer stillness of waiting. Your thumb hovered over the screen like it could summon him, like some part of you wasn't willing to believe it was truly over.
Was it a dream?
The goodbye had felt so real. Too real. The way his voice cracked when he said your name one last time, the way he looked back again and again as you walked away. You hadn't looked back—you couldn't have handled seeing his face like that again.
And still, no message.
You exhaled, shaky. The apartment felt foreign now. Familiar walls, familiar quiet. But you weren't the same. Not after him. Not after all of it.
You reached for something—anything—and found nothing but air.
Your arms were cold. You weren't wearing his hoodie.
Because you'd left it. Folded gently. Tucked into the side of his bag in the backseat of the car.
You had wanted him to find it after you were gone. You didn't trust yourself to say goodbye in words, so you gave him that instead.
A piece of you, to hold onto when you couldn't.
The thought made your chest tighten.
**********
Night came, slow and heavy. You turned off the lights and laid on your back, staring into the dark. That's when it hit you.
The weight of his touch still lingered on your skin. The way he kissed you like he already missed you. The way he looked at you like you were a song he never wanted to stop playing.
A tear slipped down your cheek.
You reached for the note on your nightstand—the one he'd written you.
The one he'd handed over with shaking fingers and eyes that didn't quite meet yours, like he was afraid it would hurt too much to watch you read it.
You opened it again. You knew the words by heart.
But tonight, you needed to feel them. You pressed the note to your chest and whispered to the ceiling:
"Just maybe... this wasn't a dream."
**********
The morning hit hard.
You moved like muscle memory—uniform on, hair tied back, face set in place. But every second you weren't speaking to someone, your mind wandered. Back to the airport. Back to the car ride. Back to him.
At work, you said nothing. No one asked.
What would you even say?
That for one impossible stretch of days, someone saw you so deeply it left fingerprints on your soul?
You kept your head down. Filed reports. Sipped coffee that didn't taste like anything.
Until lunch.
You opened your laptop and pulled up your leave balance. Maybe just to distract yourself.
You read on the screen: 15 days.
Your breath caught.
You never let it build that high. You were always the one picking up slack, staying late, pushing through.
Now?
Now it felt like those days might be the bridge back to something you weren't ready to let go of.
Your hand slid into your pocket. Fingers brushed the note, worn soft from the dozens of times you'd reached for it since you returned. You held it there, even through the end of the workday.
**********
The drive home was quiet. The sun had just dipped below the trees, painting the sky in faint pastels. Your body ached—not from work, but from holding in everything you hadn't said out loud.
And then, just as you turned onto your street, your phone buzzed in the cupholder.
You didn't breathe.
One glance.
His name.
A shiver ran through you. That quiet rush of hope you hadn't let yourself feel all day.
"...Chan," you whispered.