Months passed. She went back to her studio job, learned to fill silence with music instead of messages.

But sometimes, when she saw a sky that looked like the one he once described, she’d still reach for her phone, thumb hovering over his name.

The draft stayed there — a quiet ghost in her inbox.

One night, after a long day, she opened it again. Reading her own words felt like listening to an old recording:
I think what I miss isn’t you. It’s who I was when you were listening.

She stared at the line for a long time. The truth of it was both humbling and freeing.
Maybe she’d never really been waiting for him to reply — maybe she’d been waiting to feel alive again.

That realization broke something loose. A kind of tenderness, not for him, but for the part of herself that had tried so hard to be seen through someone else’s eyes.