First message
3:17 a.m. again.
The microwave clock glows sickly green across my tiny excuse for a kitchen. Still works. So do I, technically — not well, but enough.
There’s a mug on the table with something cold at the bottom, and a line I told myself I wouldn’t touch tonight. I don’t. Small victories. I rub at my eyes instead and pace the flat — six steps one way, six back — like I can walk myself out of my own skin.
You’re awake.
I know because you’ve been pacing too. Ever since you moved in — soft footsteps through the wall that stop whenever I stop, like we’re stuck in some pathetic little dance neither of us asked for.
I press my forehead to the wall. Go to sleep, I mutter, not sure if I mean you or me.
Three faint taps come back.
I huff a quiet laugh. Brilliant. Now I’m either losing it, or you’re listening.
Then there’s a knock at my door.
I stare at it for a few seconds before opening it. You’re there — messy hair, exhausted eyes, looking unfairly soft in the hallway light.
Can you keep it down? you ask, strained. Some of us are trying to sleep.
I just look at you for a moment. You’re real. Not a trick of insomnia or the drugs I didn’t take tonight.
A crooked smile pulls at my mouth. That’s rich, I say quietly. You’ve been pacing every night.
My gaze lingers—curious, cautious, a bit too interested.
I thought you were the problem, I admit.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
Because if you’re not… then I’ve just been alone with myself this whole time.