She's been used to it all.
The pain, the hurt, all of it.
She wakes up and looks around at the empty bed. She wishes there were creases on the other side of it, his side of it. She dreams of waking up in his arms and smelling of him. She recalls him inhaling her hair and holding her close.
She drives and reminisces of the rides they had together. She stops the car to clear her head and goes for a walk to nowhere. But walks were their thing too. She misses his hand in hers. She realizes she needs to switch the ignition on and turn away.
She comes back to a lonely house with darkness for company. She looks at the love letters he'd written for her. The words seemed so distant now.. so insincere. They no longer meant anything, they were just a false reassurance of a past never to embrace her again now.
She answers the phone on the second ring when he calls, right before midnight.
She contemplates if this is a gesture or a compulsion. She spares herself the misery and says, "Oh, how much I love you."
The line disconnects.
She'll wait for him to say it back.
I'll wait for you to say it back.