if only you were here with me

She's curled into the sheets like she already knows you're not there, one shoulder bare, fingers loose against the pillow where your hand should be.

The light catches the curve of her waist, that small architecture of her body arranged like an unanswered question. She's looking somewhere just past the camera — past you — with an expression that sits between patience and want.

Small frame, enormous pull. The kind of presence that makes a room feel different after she leaves it. You'd know exactly what to do if you were there. You're not. That's the whole point.