A Pocket Archive (47)

My phone pinged.

A picture of his wrist showing his geo coordinates on his Garmin watch flashed across my screen, followed by a photo of hotdogs roasting on a fire next to an open can of baked beans, the little blue tent pitched in the background.

A warm, soft fondness welled up in my chest as I typed a response back. At least he had cell service. Moments later, a pixilated video of a rocky gulch came through, and I smiled, enjoying the way his rich accent curled as he pointed to different features of the trail. His voice reminded me of a river winding over rocks, especially the happy way it bubbled whenever he got excited.

It was sweet, the way he always included me on his adventures like this. We both enjoyed the time to ourselves, but I still loved seeing everything that excited him, from the photos of camp supplies he was deliberating over to whatever fish he'd caught for the day. I personally cared very little for backpacking or camping, but I still found myself getting giddy by proxy with him over each little thing he sent.

I sighed softly, sliding my phone under my pillow. I didn't mind having the house to myself- in fact, it was quite nice- but everything felt too big, too empty somehow without him. Comfortable, but incomplete, like the final finishing touch or last brushstroke on a painting hadn't been put into place yet.

I loved him.

And, I realized (perhaps with some surprise), I missed him.

My phone chimed again. I half expected a photo of a fish to be staring back at me, but instead there was just a single emoji: his signature little black heart.

I smiled and sent one back, hugging my squishmallow to my chest.

It was nice to love someone worth missing.