Me:Meet, I mean. If you want to.
No response. I glance at the time, but it’s not that late. He usually replies fast when we’re both online. And he’s still online—I can see the little green dot.
I try again, amping up the playfulness.
Me:You still there? Or did Hazel smother you with a pillow?
There’s another beat, then finally a message.
Fireboy:Still here.
Two words that make it sound the opposite of him being present. I shouldn’t worry, but it doesn’t feel like him. At least, not the him I know. The one who sends filthy voice notes without blinking. The one who called me his good girl on Tuesday night and made me come with nothing but his voice.
Me:You okay?
No reply. The bubble dots appear, then disappear. Then nothing again. My chest goes tight, the air thinner than it was a moment ago. This can be normal—people get busy, especially someone who might be on call.
Me:Got a callout?
Message sent. Unread. No reply.
The green dot disappears, and I stare at the screen, willing it to change back.
Nothing.
A dull ache fills my throat, and I set the phone down, then pick it up again after a minute.
Nothing.
I wait five minutes.
Nothing.
My heart thumps faster with embarrassment, confusion, that creeping dread that feels so similar to rejection. I tell myself he’s busy. Or he’s tired. Or he’s been called in.
But there’s still no reply when I get ready for bed. Or when I brush my teeth.
None when I turn off the lamp and lie there staring at my phone. A sharp, humiliating ache creeps in.
Maybe he’ll text in the morning. He always texts me in the morning. So I pretend everything is fine, and do what I always do right before I fall asleep.
Me:Night, Fireboy
I turn over and tell myself I’ll wake up to a reply in the morning, something warm and teasing like always.
But when morning comes, my phone’s still silent.
***
Three days pass, and still nothing. I’ve refreshed the app, checked my account. Scrolled back through the last voice note he sent, the one about his dad. Back through the messages about Hazel and imported kibble, his shift schedule, the teasing banter that never failed to make me grin. Back through the moment where I suggested meeting in real life.
At work, I’m distracted. I stare at graphics and forget what I opened half my tabs for. Everett clocks it instantly.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”
Ana gives me a look but doesn’t press, just slides a muffin across my desk and lets me sit in silence.
