The sun timidly breaks through the gap in the hotel curtains. I reach for my phone and pull the covers aside, sit on the edge of the bed, and send a voice message. My voice sounds ragged from the last concert, still half asleep. Buongiorno, amore… I miss you. Up too early again. Text me when you get up. My heart tightens; this distance is like a constant pressure on my chest. I get up, light a cigarette, and look out the window. We're both on tour, and that keeps our time together limited
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