Chapter Five

The texts started small.

Claris Jordan:

made it home.

 The sheep say hello.
flower survived the train. proud of him.

Malachai had stared at the message for longer than he should’ve before replying.

Mal Bennett:

Good. 

Let me know if he needs a specialist.

And so it began. Not every day, not always long—just small things, like petals unfolding.

Claris:

finally put my scarf in the wash. It smells like antiseptic and bad coffee.
I miss that, weirdly. not the machines. but you.

Mal:

You miss the worst parts.
Try hospital pudding next time. That’ll fix it.

Sometimes Claris sent photos—his flower on a windowsill, curled in morning light. A plate of toast that was “burnt with love.” A cat from down the lane who kept climbing into the garden and refusing to leave. Sometimes Mal sent voice notes, his words clipped and awkward, but his tone soft. A short story about a boy who fainted in anatomy class. A rant about caffeine withdrawal.

Claris always replied. There was one message that stuck in Mal’s head, though. One Claris never sent again.

Claris:

I had a dream you called me ‘love’. woke up wishing it were real.

Mal didn’t answer right away. It took him a day and a half.

Then he wrote:

Mal:

I could make it real. ;p
But, I think we can take it slow.

After that, the messages grew further in between. Not from distance—just… life. Finals, rotations. Flower-trimming. Rain. Days passed like pages turning quietly in the dark. Until the night before graduation. Mal sat in his room, suit hanging off the wardrobe door, a textbook still open like a habit he couldn’t kick. His phone buzzed once.

Claris:

You’re gonna be Dr. Bennett tomorrow.
Bet you still make your coffee too strong.

Mal didn’t reply right away. He just smiled, leaned back, and imagined Claris lying in some flower-washed room up north, watching the stars blink through a smudged window. And he whispered to himself, low: “Yeah. I miss you too.”