—
miss
—
She'd left his desk for a reason. She'd left to save herself from the trauma of the ambiguity, to try and restore the pieces of her heart he'd shattered.
Ever since that night, everything had changed and they'd collectively lost what made them, them. They'd barely spoken six words to each other since she went to work for Louis and the words they did say face to face we laced with anger and resentment and hurt.
But then, somehow, unbeknownst to anyone else, he'd started calling her.
He call her late at night when she was sitting at home fighting off thoughts of him with wine and reading. He call her during the day at the office, sometimes out of habit and sometimes for no other reason that just to hear her voice, like he needed it to breath.
She never picked up. He always left a message.
So, after weeks of letting the messages build up, her brain running wild with hurt and pain, she finally settled down and listened. She filtered through message after message, listening to his gravelly toned voice tell her everything and nothing. One by one, she let his voice coax out all the emotions she'd been holding back from him, allowing herself to finally feel.
The last one she heard is what did her in. It was a random ranting message about something silly and mundane, but then she heard him pause, take a deep breath and let it out.
"And if you think I don't miss you every day..." He started, then trailed off, letting go a sigh. Then it ended.
She couldn't fight the subtle in take of breath, an audible response to hearing his words through the receiver.
She replayed it twice more, letting herself drown in the knowledge that he was suffering just as much as she had been.
She sinks into bed that night, covered in blankets and thoughts of him and convinces herself that maybe this solution isn't the right one.
Two nights later, she's perched on his couch agreeing to come back to him.
She never tells him that she got his messages, but she never deletes them either.
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