It had been almost a year since Em moved across the country. The breakup was mutual, born from geography more than emotion, and despite everything, we never fully let go. We still talked. Still laughed. Still sent each other memes that only made sense because of some shared inside joke no one else would get.
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Some nights we’d text until the early hours, conversations that drifted into blurry, vulnerable territory—more memories than updates. I missed her in ways I didn’t expect. Not just the way her hand fit perfectly in mine or how she’d hum under her breath when she cooked—but the way she made the ordinary feel electric.
It wasn’t long before she started talking about her new life. A new job. A new city. And, eventually, a new boyfriend.
At first, I played it cool. Pretended it didn’t matter. But her tone changed. Her messages became bolder, flirtier—laced with something that felt like a challenge.
“You wouldn’t believe the kind of trouble I get into now…”
“He’s different, you know? Confident. Wild. And God, the things he does to me…”
It stung more than I wanted to admit. But I couldn’t stop reading. And she knew exactly what she was doing.
“Bet you never made me moan like that.”
I stared at the message for a long time before responding.
“You always made me think I had.”
She replied with a winking emoji. Then silence.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed her words over and over, a mix of jealousy and curiosity boiling beneath the surface. Was she just teasing me? Or was she trying to tell me something else?
Over the next few days, our messages became a mix of nostalgia and flirtation. She’d send playful voice notes of her laughing, teasing. One night, she admitted something that made my heart race.
“I still think about us sometimes. About how close we were. How good it was, even when it wasn’t perfect.”
“Yeah?” I replied, my chest tightening.
“You really want to know what I think about?”
I hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen.
“Yeah. I do.”
A minute passed. Then another. No reply. Just a typing bubble that came and went.
Finally, she sent a voice message.
I hesitated. Then hit play.
It wasn’t anything inappropriate—just her voice. Low. Warm. “I was thinking about that night in the cabin,” she said, her words slow and deliberate. “Remember? The storm, the wine, the fireplace. I’ve never felt that kind of closeness with anyone else. It was like the rest of the world didn’t exist.”
“It’s different now. But sometimes I wish I could go back. Just for a night.”
I responded without thinking.
“Why just one?”
She didn’t answer right away. But later that night, she sent another text. This time, she told me how different her new relationship was. Wilder. Less predictable. But she missed the way I made her feel safe, known. Like she didn’t have to prove anything.
I didn’t expect the confession that followed.
“He’s intense. Sexy. And yeah… he’s got a huge cock. He knows how to please me. But with you? I felt seen. That’s a different kind of intimacy.”
I lay in bed reading that message on repeat. My mind drifted with imagination.
The next night, I sent her a message.
“I miss hearing you. Really hearing you.”
She replied within seconds.
“Say that again.”
“I miss your moans.”
Then she did something I never expected. She asked:
“If I sent you something… just audio… would that be weird?”
I didn’t know how to respond. My heart was pounding.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On what I’d be hearing.”
I waited, unsure what was coming next. She said she needed to think about it. That it felt vulnerable. But the next night, around midnight, she sent it.
The sexiest audio clip.
I didn’t listen right away. I stared at my phone, debating. Was this right? Was I crossing a line?
When I finally pressed play, I heard only her breathing. Then her getting fucked. Hard. I don’t know if my heart was pounding harder, my heart or him.
In the weeks that followed, we didn’t exchange more recordings. The tension faded into a quiet warmth. The teasing became softer. She focused on her life. I focused on mine. But every once in a while, a message would pop up. A photo of the mountains she hiked. A song that reminded her of me. A late-night “Are you awake?”
What she gave me wasn’t just a recording. It was a reminder – of the best sex that I’m missing out on.
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