Mac Miller - Dang (feat. Anderson .paak) -

He thought about the way she looked when she was annoyed—the specific way she’d tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear before launching into a critique of his inability to remember the grocery list. He missed that hair tuck. He even missed the critique.

Miles grabbed his keys. He didn’t have a plan, but he had a feeling. He stepped out into the hallway, the beat from the record player still pulsing through the door behind him. He was done with the "gone." He was ready for the "back." Mac Miller - Dang (feat. Anderson .Paak)

He realized he was holding his breath, waiting for the sound of her key in the lock. It was a frantic kind of longing, the kind that makes you want to run down the street in your socks just to catch a glimpse of a familiar coat. He thought about the way she looked when

He could still hear the ghost of the door clicking shut. It wasn't a slam; slams were easy. Slams meant there was still fire. The click was worse. The click was a period at the end of a sentence he wasn't finished writing. Miles grabbed his keys

He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbs hovering over the glass. He wanted to call her, to crack a joke about how the cat looked depressed without her, but the words felt heavy. He was tired of the cycle—the losing and the finding, the leaving and the staying. It was a dizzying dance where neither of them knew who was leading anymore.

The air in the room was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the lingering static of a dead phone. Miles sat on the edge of his bed, watching the late afternoon sun carve gold stripes across the floorboards. In the kitchen, a half-empty bottle of orange juice sat sweating on the counter. She had left ten minutes ago, or maybe it was an hour. Time tended to stretch and snap whenever they fought.