Alexander had a habit of waking before his alarms. Not out of discipline—he hated the sound—but out of routine. His body didn't like sleep that lasted too long. It preferred to rise when the sky was still undecided, when the sun hadn't fully committed to being awake yet.
This morning was no different.
Except… it was.
Because the weight in his chest didn't feel like anxiety or overthinking or whatever usually parked itself between his ribs at 6:34 in the morning.
It felt… warm.
Settled.
And the moment he blinked into the pale light sliding through his blinds, her voice echoed in the back of his head.
He turned onto his side, grabbed his phone off the nightstand.
Still there.
Call from Elena — 37 minutes. Last night.
His thumb hovered over the screen for a second before he set it down again.
It wasn't like they had said anything earth-shattering. They hadn't solved the silence or dissected what it meant. There hadn't been confessions, or jokes about how awkward it had gotten. It wasn't even about fixing anything.
It was just… a voice.
Her voice.
Checking in.
Not desperate. Not dramatic. Just there, like she always had been. But this time, she made the first move. Broke the quiet in a way that didn't feel forced.
And for a guy who'd grown used to silence, that one sound—the way she'd said "Hey," half hesitant, half hopeful—had hit him harder than it should have.
He sat on the edge of his bed and rolled his shoulders out, stretching the stiffness from his neck.
He hadn't known what to expect when she called. Honestly, he thought it might be a misdial. Or worse—some kind of closure. Something like "Hey, I think we should stop whatever this is."
But it hadn't been that at all.
It was simple.Human.Real.
She said she missed talking to him.
And he believed her.
More than that—he'd missed her too.
He just hadn't said it first.
After they hung up last night, he didn't sleep right away.
He sat outside for another hour, drink in hand, watching the way the streetlights turned everything silver. Every so often, his phone would glow—not with messages, just app updates, reminders, calendar buzz. But still, he kept checking it. Not because he expected anything else… but because it had felt good to answer.
He wasn't used to that kind of vulnerability.
Not the messy kind people posted about.Not the big gestures.Just… the type that made you want to stay on the phone longer than usual. That made you listen harder, not because the person was saying anything profound—but because their voice made the world quieter.
That was her.
Not a storm.
A stillness.
And he didn't realize until last night how badly he'd needed that.
He showered, dressed in something halfway clean, and pulled his hoodie on as he stepped outside.
Campus was waking up—slowly. Bikes clattered by. A few students crossed the quad, shoulders hunched against the lingering morning chill. A squirrel darted past his boot like it had business to attend to.
Everything looked the same.
But it felt different.
And he knew exactly why.
He stopped by the campus café, half out of habit, half because he suddenly craved the stability of warm coffee. The girl behind the counter knew his order. Didn't ask questions. That's why he came here.
But when she handed him his drink, he paused, phone still in hand.
His thumb hovered over her name again.
He wasn't going to text her—not yet. Not right after the call.
But he wanted to.
Not for a joke. Not for a meme. Just to say something simple like:
| Hey. Today's quieter. Thanks for last night.
But he didn't send it.
Instead, he pocketed the phone, stepped outside, and walked slower than usual.
Because now?
Now he wasn't avoiding the silence.
He was waiting.
For when she'd speak again.
And when she did, he knew—he'd be ready.