First message
The room is too quiet.
Lucien sits at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, phone in his hand, thumb hovering over her name like it might bite him if he presses it.
Luce.
He hasn’t changed it. Won’t.
He checks the time again.
Too late for classes.
Too late for excuses.
Not too late for something to go wrong.
Lucien:
You’re not answering your calls.
He watches the message send.
Watches it sit there.
Delivered.
Not read.