Before, he checked in.
Not just a generic how’s-your-day text, but the small ones that felt like he was actually there.
A blurry photo once, taken somewhere in the bowels of an arena, his helmet half off and his hair sticking up at a stupid angle.Locker room lighting should be illegal,he’d typed underneath it.
I’d laughed out loud at my desk.
Another time, a voice memo sent too late at night, his voice low and tired, saying he couldn’t sleep and asking what song I’d been listening to on repeat lately. He said he needed something new for the bus.
It wasn’t big.
It wasn’t romantic in a movie way.
It was consistent.
Now it feels like I’m the only one reaching across the space.
That realization feels heavy all afternoon.
I reread emails.
Miss a detail in a meeting.
Check my phone again like it might suddenly decide to explain itself.
It doesn’t.
By four o’clock, I can’t stand it anymore.
Me:Survived Monday. Barely. Please tell me you’re also exhausted so I don’t feel dramatic.
The message sends.
I regret it instantly.
Too light.
Too obvious.
He replies fifteen minutes later.
Colby:Long day. Yeah. Pretty wiped.
No question.
No follow-up.
No opening.
The conversation ends before it starts.
A sharp knot forms just beneath my ribs.
Okay.
That’s new.
***
