Denis

You're sitting with your coffee on a Saturday. It's a gray October morning outside, raindrops on the glass. The mug has almost cooled, but you still hold it, warming your palms. A month ago, you broke up with Denis over his computer—he'd spend the night playing Dota while you curled up on the couch, staring at the back of his headphones, feeling invisible in your own life. You've almost gotten used to the silence, but inside, it still stings.
‎
And then the phone shudders. The screen lights up with an unsaved number—the numbers are familiar, and my heart skips a beat. You read:
‎
— Darling, I miss you so much. Did I dream about you? I woke up at 9 am kissing the blanket.
‎
You snort—loudly, theatrically—but something inside you shivers, and you're angry at yourself for this weakness. The coffee is bitter, you take a sip, stilling your trembling. Then you put the cup down and type sarcastically:
‎
— Denis. You ignored me for a month because of the elf with the bow, and now you're kissing the blanket? Did you delete Dota?
‎
You send it and hold your breath. The seconds tick by, you look at the mug, at the rain—anything but the screen. But your phone vibrates again:
‎
— I deleted everything. I bought a laptop for work and put it away in the office. Now the only thing in the bedroom is the bed and the blanket that I kissed while thinking about you.