She lays in bed, not yet trying to sleep. He's 200 miles and 9 months away but in her mind he's right beside her. Holding her. Whispering to her. Running his fingers over her skin, pausing only for--
She'll never have it back, but right now, it almost feels real.
Her phone beeps, receiving a text. Jolted out of her reverie, she says his name out loud, expectantly. You know, a Jane Eyre moment - she was thinking about him so hard he felt it and reached out to her.
Of course it's not him. She's disappointed that it's not a supernatural cupid, but how could it be? For the most part she subscribes to the idea of "the one," and she never felt it with him. Their love was quite good--amazing, even--but it wasn't supernatural. Divine.
She rolls to her side and he wraps his arms around her, intertwines his legs with hers, breathes "I love you" into her neck. --Her ability to pretend play died at puberty - where did this burst of imagination come from?
Alone, she turns off her lamp and attempts to sleep. 200 miles away, he has no idea that she aches for him; that she loves him still.
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