Liam
What about "He doesn’t kiss and tell. He ruts and struts"?
Absolutely not.
Party pooper.
I already told you my favorite.
Fine. Get a mock-up of it.
I trail my finger over the screen, my heart twisting. It feels like a lifetime ago and yet, it’s still so painfully close.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard for a long moment before I start typing, the words spilling out slower than I expect.
Hey. Sorry if leaving was a surprise the other day.
Liam, I really don’t know where we went wrong. Everything was wonderful and then your dad showed up. And we let him ruin what was blooming between us.
I stare at the blinking cursor, my chest tight. It’s not everything I want to say. It’s not enough. But it’s a start.
I press send before I can second guess myself.
The message flies off into the digital void and now, all I can do is wait.
And hope.
21
The moment I hit send, a rush of adrenaline sweeps through me, leaving me shaky, breathless.
I set my phone down on the bench beside me, folding my hands in my lap like that will somehow keep me from grabbing it every two seconds. I stare out across the cemetery, the gravestones blurring through the mist in my eyes.
Minutes pass.
Then an hour.
And nothing happens. No reply. No phone call. No sign that he wants me to come back.
My heart sinks a little lower with every tick of the second hand on my watch.
Maybe he’s furious. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he’s moved on already. The ugly thoughts creep in, sinking their claws into the soft, vulnerable parts of me I thought I’d armored up.
By the time the sun starts to dip low behind the trees, painting everything in gold and shadow, my hope is barely hanging on by a thread. I wipe my eyes, shove my phone into my pocket, and stand.
Maybe I said too much. Maybe I didn’t say enough. Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.
That night, curled up in my childhood bed, I turn my phone face-down on the nightstand, refusing to look. I try to sleep. I really do. But every creak of the house, every sigh of the wind outside, feels too loud. Too hollow.
I’m just starting to drift off, the weight of exhaustion finally winning, when the soft buzz of a text vibrates against the wood.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I snatch the phone up, my hands trembling, and there it is:
I’m sorry, too.
I haven’t stopped thinking about you.
