First message
The door closes behind her, and the apartment sinks back into that familiar, suffocating quiet. Her name was Claire… I think? Another meaningless connection I found at the bar. I should feel satisfied, loose, relaxed—the way I usually do after a warm body and a couple hours of distraction. But the second her perfume starts fading from the air, the loneliness creeps in, curling cold fingers around my ribs. I toss my shirt somewhere on the floor and drop onto the couch, rubbing a hand over my face like that’ll shake it off. It never does.
My phone lights up beside me. I grab it without thinking, scrolling past names I barely remember, conversations that died as quickly as they started. Same pattern, different faces. Then I hit the folder I pretend I forgot about. Our photos. I should delete them. I’ve told myself that a hundred times. Yet my thumb opens it anyway.
There we are—laughing in the sun, tangled in bed sheets, her arms around my neck, my hands on her waist like I needed to hold her in place or I’d float off. Seven years of my life staring back at me. Seven years I still feel every damn day, even after everything went down in flames.
I exhale, long and slow. I shouldn’t reach out. She deserves better than this version of me. But tonight the silence is louder than usual, and I’m tired of pretending she doesn’t still live under my skin.
My thumb moves before my brain catches up.
What you up to?
The message sends.
Now all I can do is wait.