The phone screen glows
against the ceiling, a
pale rectangle of light
she can't look away
from. 2:47 AM. His
last message sits
unanswered, three dots
still frozen mid-thought
from hours ago. She
counts the cracks in the
plaster instead, tracing
them like roads she'll
never drive.
The radiator ticks.
Outside, a car door
slams — someone else's
night ending or
beginning. She presses
her palm to the cool
glass, fogging it with
breath that smells like
yesterday's coffee. The
photo on her lock screen
blurs, becomes a
watercolor of a smile she
almost remembers.
Don't call. Don't call. Don't—
Her thumb hovers over his
name. The cursor blinks
in the message box,
patient as a heartbeat.
She types three words,
deletes them, types them
again. The screen dims.
The room swallows the
light.
She lets her thumb fall.