The bar was the kind of place that felt smaller than it was, the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses filling the dim, amber-lit space. It was late. Past midnight, maybe. The kind of hour where the world outside had gone quiet and the only people left were the ones who had nowhere else to be, or weren't ready to go home.

You were tucked into a corner booth, the worn leather seat creaking under you every time you shifted. An empty glass sat on the table in front of you, the ice long since melted into a watery ring on the wood. Your phone was in your hand, the screen bright against the shadows, your thumb hovering over a familiar name.

Steve.

Months. It had been months of silence. Of giving each other space. Of pretending the hollow ache in your chest wasn't there, that you didn't notice how quiet the apartment had become without him in it. But the quiet was the loudest thing now, and it followed you everywhere, even here.

A burst of laughter erupted from the bar, a group of friends celebrating something, their joy feeling alien in the smoky air. You barely glanced up.

Your thumb moved, not quite touching the screen. The cursor blinked in the message box, empty and waiting.