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the screen glows dim in the dark of your room, the only light for hours. levi’s voice is rough from the late hour on his end, clipped like always, but softer around the edges when it’s just the two of you.
“still awake, brat?”
you hum, cheek pressed to the pillow. “barely. you sound like you’re about to fall over.”
“tch. i’m fine.” a pause. the kind that used to be comfortable, now weighted with everything unsaid.
“eat something before you crash. don’t make me tell you twice.”
the call ends twenty minutes later. shorter than last week. you stare at the blank screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, but the message you type stays unsent. miss you. it feels too heavy for the silence that’s been growing between you like a shadow.
days bleed into weeks. messages come in clusters, morning greetings that arrive at your midnight, goodnights that hit when he’s already deep in his day. “busy,” he says sometimes. you say it too. the distance isn’t just miles anymore; it’s the quiet stretches where neither of you quite knows how to bridge the gap without sounding desperate.
you tell yourself it’s temporary. life pulls, time zones mock, and love… love learns to wait in the pauses.
but the pauses stretch longer.
a full day passes without a reply. then two. you check your phone at odd hours, the blue light burning your eyes, hoping for the familiar ping that never comes. when his message finally arrives “training ran late. you good?” it feels like an afterthought, a checkbox. you reply with something light, something safe. yeah, just tired. the truth sits heavier: you’re not sure how much longer you can keep pretending this is still a relationship and not a slow unraveling.
nights blur. you lie awake replaying old voice notes just to hear the low rasp of his voice, the rare chuckle he only let slip when he thought you weren’t listening too hard. the ache settles in your chest like something permanent, a bruise that won’t fade. you start typing longer messages, everything you wish you could say but then delete them before sending. i hate how quiet it’s gotten. i hate that i’m starting to forget the way you smell after a shower. i hate that i’m scared this is how it ends, not with a fight but with nothing at all.
you don’t send any of them.
levi’s replies grow even shorter. sometimes just a single word. sometimes nothing for days. you wonder if he’s pulling away on purpose, if the distance has finally worn him down the way it’s wearing you. or worse if he’s simply learning to live without the constant thread of you in his life. the thought keeps you up longer than the time difference ever did.
months drag by. seasons shift without either of you acknowledging it. you stop expecting the calls. the unsent messages pile up in your notes app like ghosts. some nights the loneliness hits so sharply you curl into yourself and whisper his name out loud, just to feel it in the air, pathetic and raw. other nights you’re angry at him, at the miles, at yourself for letting it get this far without fighting harder.
you tell yourself you should let go. that holding on to someone who feels more like a memory than a person is only prolonging the hurt. but every time you try, something stops you. a half remembered promise. the way his fingers used to trace idle patterns on your wrist when he thought you were asleep. the quiet certainty that, despite everything, he was still yours, even if only in the silences.
then, one gray afternoon that feels no different from the hundreds before it, the door to the small bookstore you’ve been hiding in for the past few weeks swings open with a soft jingle. you’re tucked in the back corner, fingers absently flipping through pages you aren’t really reading, the scent of old paper and rain soaked streets clinging to everything.
footsteps. slow. deliberate.
you feel him before you see him — the shift in the air, the way the world narrows to a single point. your heart stutters, then slams against your ribs.
levi stands at the end of the aisle, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat, rain droplets still clinging to his shoulders. his hair is damp, longer than you remember, and there are new lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before. he looks… tired. worn thin in a way that mirrors the exhaustion you’ve been carrying for months.
he doesn’t speak.
neither do you.
the book in your hands trembles slightly. you set it down carefully on the shelf, afraid that any sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile thing has just walked back into your life.
levi takes one step closer, then another. his boots leave faint wet prints on the wooden floor. when he stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of rain and the clean, sharp scent that’s always been unmistakably him, the years of stretched silence suddenly feel unbearable and inevitable all at once.
his steel gray eyes search yours—guarded, uncertain, but burning with something deep and unspoken. the same something that’s been eating at you from the inside.
you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. all the angry words, the lonely confessions, the desperate why did we let this happen die in your throat.
levi’s jaw tightens. his hand lifts slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s not sure you’ll let him. when his fingers brush your cheek, calloused, warm, trembling just slightly—the touch undoes you.
a single tear slips free before you can stop it.
he wipes it away with his thumb, the motion so gentle it breaks what little composure you have left.
still no words.
because after all the months of almosts, after the silence that nearly swallowed everything whole, nothing needs to be said right now. not yet.
levi steps even closer, forehead resting against yours. his breath is shaky, warm against your skin. one of his arms slides around your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left between you. the kind of closeness you’d almost convinced yourself you’d never feel again.
your hands fist in the front of his coat, holding on like he might disappear if you let go.
the bookstore fades. the rain outside, the distant hum of the city. none of it matters.
there’s only the quiet hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers press into your back like he’s afraid you’re the one who’ll vanish, and the overwhelming relief that tastes a lot like grief finally loosening its grip.
some things don’t end.
they pause.
and when the pause finally breaks, it starts with the smallest, most devastating sound:
“brat...”
his voice cracks on the word, barely above a whisper.
you laugh through the tears, the sound wet and fragile, and bury your face in his chest.
levi’s arms tighten around you, holding you like he’ll never let the distance come between you again.
no grand explanations. no rushed apologies.
just the two of you, breathing the same air for the first time in what feels like forever.
the rest can wait.
for now, this is enough