I wake up, and the first thought is you. Always you. The other side of the bed feels wider than the whole room, heavier than any silence. I grab my phone the way someone dying of thirst grabs a glass of water, urgent, desperate, knowing it won’t be enough but reaching anyway. I type. I tell you, the night was too long. That I dreamed of your laugh. That I can still feel you in the smallest corners of this flat. And I always end the same way: saying I love you. Like a prayer. Like the words themselves could reach across the distance you left behind. As the hours crawl by, the words pile up. I write the way I breathe: compulsively, because if I stop, I suffocate. I tell you about the lunch I made without appetite. About the song that caught me off guard and tore me open. About how the emptiness gets louder when night falls. And every time, I circle back to the only thing I can say with certainty: I love you. I love you as if it’s the first time. I love you as if it’s the last. I love you...
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