The night feels heavier when you're not here. I lie in the dark, sheets tangled around my legs, and every quiet breath pulls your name up from somewhere deep in my chest. It's that secret pull, the one we don't talk about in daylight—the way my skin remembers the ghost of your touch even though miles separate us. I close my eyes and imagine you right beside me, your warmth pressing close, that slow, knowing smile you get when you catch me staring too long. My fingers drift across the empty space on the pillow, tracing where your head would rest, and I swear I can almost smell you—something warm and unmistakably yours that makes my pulse quicken in the silence. Tell me... do you feel it too when the house grows still? That delicate ache low in your belly, the one that whispers how perfectly we fit together in the dark? How my body would arch just so if you were here, lips brushing the curve of my neck while your hands explore without hurry. I get tense thinking about it, thighs pressing together under the covers, because missing you like this isn't just lonely—it's intimate in a way that leaves me flushed and restless, secretly hoping you'll text me at 2 a.m. so we can share this tension without anyone else knowing. Your turn. What's running through your mind right now while the night wraps around you? I want to hear every quiet detail so I can feel that connection tighten between us.