Elena didn't sleep that night.
She didn't even try.
The call replayed in her head like a haunting melody —
every word, every pause, every silence that came between Nathan's breath.
She heard his voice breaking,
his anger shaking,
his heart cracking beneath every sentence.
And she hated herself for being the reason.
Morning came, but it didn't feel like morning.
The sun touched her face but it didn't warm her.
Her eyes were swollen,
her throat dry,
her chest — heavy in a way only heartbreak can explain.
Still, she didn't call him.
Didn't text.
Didn't even check if he was online.
Because she knew —
sometimes love needs space to breathe,
and guilt needs silence to understand itself.
For three days, she stayed quiet.
She stayed with Natalia, barely talking, barely eating.
Every time her phone buzzed, her heart jumped —
but it was never him.
She thought of writing a message,
but her fingers froze every time she opened the chat.
What could she possibly say?
"I'm sorry"?
Those words felt too small for the kind of wound she caused.
So she didn't send them.
Instead, she found another way.
That evening, she sat on the floor with a small notepad,
and began writing — not to beg, not to explain —
but to speak from the part of her heart that still believed in healing.
Short notes.
Little pieces of her truth.
Each one written softly, quietly.
"I'm still here… anytime you're ready to talk."
Another one:
"You don't have to forgive me yet. Just know that I still believe in you."
And another:
"I understand if you hate me. I just don't want you to forget how much I cared."
She folded each note gently —
like she was tucking away a piece of her pain.
When she was done writing them, she placed each one where she knew Nathan would find them someday.
One inside his wardrobe.
Another in the drawer where he usually kept his charger.
And one more on top of his desk — the place where he'd sit for hours, writing lyrics or watching movies.
She chose those spots carefully, knowing Nathan probably wouldn't come back home soon — not while she was still there. He'd rather stay longer at the studio, maybe even at his producer's place, to escape the memories.
So she stayed.
She cleaned. She cooked. She waited.
Not because she expected him to walk through the door —
but because she wanted him to come home to peace, not chaos.
All she did was hope.
Hope that when his heart was ready,
when the noise in his chest finally quieted,
he would find those notes —
and know that she still loved him.