I turn my head, stare at the phone again.
The screen lights up one last time before it dims. His message sits there, waiting. Mocking me softly.
I type something.
‘I don’t know if this is a good idea.’
My thumb hovers over the send button.
I delete it.
Then I type again.
‘Don’t thank me! I want to thank you.’Pause.‘It meant a lot.’
I don’t add a smiley. I don’t sign it with my name. I just hit send and lock the screen before I can take it back.
Then I turn over and bury my face in the pillow.
Let him read into it whatever he wants.
Let the night swallow it whole.
Chapter six
Flyn
Iread the message three times.
Then I read it a fourth, just to make sure I didn’t imagine it.
‘Don’t thank me! I want to thank you. It meant a lot.’
That’s it. No emoji. No second message. No cute follow-up, no ‘goodnight’ or ‘talk soon’ or anything else that would give me even a sliver more information.
I flop backward onto the couch, phone resting on my chest, and stare up at the ceiling like it might hold some secret answer about what the hell this is turning into.
The glow of the screen fades, but my smile doesn’t.
God. I’m a grown man, and I’m grinning like an idiot at twelve words from someone who used to work in the cubicle next to mine. A guy who has been out of my life for over a year. A guy who ghosted everyone, who vanished from the office and the group chats and even the shared Google calendar like he never existed. No goodbye drinks, no farewell Slack post, nothing. Just poof.
Gone.
And then tonight he sat across from me like no time had passed at all.
His smile was softer than I remembered. A little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to use it. But once it settled in, it caught, like warmth seeping into the cold edges of a long winter.
And I couldn’t stop wanting to kiss him.
I sit up again, phone cradled in my hands, and reread the message. Not like there’s a hidden meaning tucked behind the words. It’s not a puzzle. He didn’t say anything dramatic. He didn’t say anything about doing it again. No breadcrumbs to follow.
But still… it feels like something. It felt like something the whole time we were together.
There is something else as well. A tangible thing that is probably far more important than connection, attraction or whatever the hell it is that I’m obsessing about.
The signs of this darker thing were everywhere. I saw it in the way he fidgeted, tapping his thumb against the stem of his wineglass, in the way his voice tightened when I asked about his life, like the words were heavier than they should be.
Something’s going on with him.
