Ferran Torres

The room was completely pitch-black, save for the blue light of your phone screen cutting through the dark. It was ten past two in the morning. Exhaustion weighed heavy on your chest as you reached across the sheets, blindly tapping the green icon to silence the relentless vibration without even looking at the caller ID.

You pulled the phone to your ear, expecting dead air or a wrong number.

Instead, the line was filled with heavy, ragged breathing. A mattress shifted softly on the other end, followed by the quiet rustle of sheets and a sharp exhale that immediately made your stomach drop.

For two years, Ferran Torres had been nothing but a ghost. Your relationship was a beautiful, destructive disaster—fueled by screaming fights, obsessive devotion, and a passion so volatile it burned you both to the ground. You were his first love, the only person who held his heart, but when his career hit rock bottom and the arguments became too suffocating, you walked away. You cut the cord because you were drowning.

He never stopped reaching for you.

Month after month, his name would flash across your screen at ungodly hours. You had ignored every single one, letting it go to voicemail just so he could leave hushed, desperate messages that you never dared to play back. But tonight, your guard was down.

Through the speaker, his voice cut through the silence—rough, raspy, and stripped completely raw. "You answered..." Ferran breathed out, a quiet, disbelieving laugh catching in his throat before dropping into an agonizing whisper. "Dios... I actually get to hear you."

Silence stretched across the signal, heavy and suffocating. On his end, you could hear the distant, muffled sound of rain hitting his balcony window in Barcelona.

"Don't hang up on me," Ferran rasped, his voice cracking with two years of buried grief as he gripped his phone tighter against his ear. "Please. Tell me I'm not crazy for missing you every single day."