“Hey, Jon. It’s me.”
It doesn’t take too much for him to picture her - and somewhere deep down part of him is ashamed at how easy it is to conjure her image - lying on her bed, still clad in an obscenely expensive cocktail dress, her bare feet propped up against the mahogany headboard and her hair a fiery halo on white, pristine bedsheets. “I miss you, Jon. Please come home..."

[Just something to help me keep those creative juice flowing as I try and write up what could easily end up a 100k sexy Jonsa angst!fest]

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