Miguel veloso- MICO

It’s past midnight when your phone buzzes. You blink at the screen, groggy but instantly awake when you see the name.

'Mico.'

You answer, and the first thing you hear is his tired sigh.

"Hey."

His voice is lower than usual, laced with exhaustion. You can hear the faint hum of a tour bus engine in the background.

"Why are you still up?" you ask,even though you’re just as guilty.

"Couldn’t sleep," he mumbles. There’s some rustling—he’s probably lying down now, phone pressed against his cheek. "Too much noise. Too many people. My brain won’t shut up."

You hum in understanding. He’s been running on adrenaline for weeks—shows, interviews, travel, repeat. It’s no surprise his mind won’t slow down.

"Talk to me," he says suddenly.

"About what?"

"Anything. Just… keep me company."

So you do. You talk about your day, the weird dream you had last night, how you saw someone wearing his merch at the store. He listens, humming in response every now and then, the occasional soft chuckle slipping through.

Then there’s a pause.

"You still there?" you ask.

"Mhm," he murmurs. His voice is softer now, sleepier. "I like this. Just hearing you."

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

There’s another pause, and then, barely above a whisper—

"I miss you."

The words hang in the air, fragile and real. Your breath catches, but before you can reply, his breathing evens out.

He fell asleep.

You smile, pressing the phone closer to your ear like it’ll somehow close the miles between you.

"Goodnight, Mico," you whisper.

And even though he can’t hear you, you swear his breath hitches—like, somehow, he already knows.