That night, around 8 p.m., I was still deeply immersed in sleep, tangled in the soft embrace of my dreams, when the persistent buzz of my phone jolted me awake. Half-conscious, I fumbled for the device, my fingers clumsily swiping to answer the call. My voice was thick with sleep as I mumbled a groggy greeting, expecting nothing more than a routine conversation. But as my vision slowly adjusted to the dim light of my room, I realized with a start—it wasn't just a regular call. It was a FaceTime. And there she was, her face filling the screen, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she took in the sight of me, still sprawled out in bed, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts.
"Hey, sleepyhead, wake up!" she teased, her voice dripping with playful amusement. Her tone was light, but there was a glint in her eyes that told me she was enjoying catching me off guard.
I rubbed my eyes, blinking at the screen as her image came into focus. She looked radiant, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her hair slightly tousled as if she'd been out enjoying the evening. She told me she was spending time with her cousins, her voice bubbling with energy. My own voice, still heavy with sleep, came out in a low mumble as I asked, "Won't you send me pictures?"
She chuckled softly, shaking her head as if I'd said something utterly ridiculous. "You dumbo, we share the same Google Photos album. You can see everything I've uploaded."
Her words brought a smile to my face, and I couldn't help but laugh at myself for forgetting. Still, I kept the call going as I dragged myself out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I reached for the hem of my vest, preparing to pull it over my head. That's when I noticed her gaze lingering on me through the screen. Her eyes followed my every movement, unapologetically taking in the sight of me as I stripped off the vest, exposing my bare torso.
I smirked, catching her eye in the mirror. "Aren't you even a little shy?"
She met my gaze with a boldness that made my heart skip a beat. "Oh, really? And were you shy when your fingers were tracing my skin, slipping under my dress while you kissed me?"
Her words sent a jolt of warmth coursing through me, and I felt my cheeks flush as the memory of that intimate moment came rushing back. We both blushed, caught in the shared recollection of a time when our connection had felt electric, charged with unspoken desire.
Shaking my head with a grin, I tried to play it cool. "Let me shower, you idiot," I said, ending the call before she could see the full extent of my embarrassment.
A few moments later, as I stood under the warm spray of the shower, my phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from her. *Check the shared album. There's something special for you.*
Curiosity piqued, I quickly dried off and grabbed my phone, opening the Google Photos app. My heart skipped a beat as I saw the image she had uploaded. There she was, wearing *my* shirt—the one I had given her as a keepsake, the very same shirt I had been wearing when I proposed to her. It was the shirt we had shared our first kiss in, a symbol of so many memories we had built together.
A rush of nostalgia washed over me as I zoomed in on the photo, searching for something specific. My memory told me there should be a faint lip mark on the shoulder, the imprint of a kiss she had left on the fabric that day. But now, as I examined the photo more closely, I noticed something different. The mark had shifted—it was no longer on the shoulder. Instead, it was lower, near her chest.
Without hesitation, I called her back.
"Hey," I said, my voice tinged with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "The lip mark… it's not on the shoulder anymore. It's lower now."
She giggled, her voice filled with playful defiance. "My shirt, my lips—what's your problem, huh?"
I couldn't help but laugh at her boldness. She had a way of always keeping me on my toes, whether through her words, her touch, or simply the way she looked at me. There was something about her confidence, her unapologetic way of claiming what was hers, that made my heart race.
Shaking my head in amusement, I whispered, "You're impossible," before hanging up, still grinning like an idiot. Even miles apart, she had a way of making me feel alive, of reminding me why I had fallen for her in the first place. And as I stood there, staring at the photo of her in my shirt, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for the woman who had somehow become my everything.