The day after our talk, I texted her on a whim, fully expecting to get slapped with that stupid error message like always. You know the one - the digital middle finger of rejection.
But when my message actually went through?
I swear my soul left my body for a second.
I just stood there, staring at the littleDeliveredcheckmark like I'd discovered fire. Then it hit me, and I lost it - let out this primal, "YES!" that probably rattled the rafters, jumped off the couch, and broke into what can only be described as a crime against rhythm. Arms flailing, hips swinging like a drunk uncle at a wedding, knees bouncing like I'd been possessed by the spirit of every bad boy-band dancer from the early 2000s.
Embarrassing as hell, considering half the team was in the living room and saw me do it. The guys stared at me like I'd grown two heads. Then came the groans.
"Dude, what the hell was that?"
"Never. Do that. Again."
"My eyes are bleeding."
"Bro, I think you just set dance back by at least fifty years."
I didn't even care. Not even a little. I hadn't felt that stupidly happy in years, and I was gonna celebrate like a man who just got paroled.
Because how could I care whenmygirl was finally - finally - giving me the smallest sliver of hope that we were on the road to mending our relationship.
But apparently, replying to my texts is the only olive branch she's willing to hand me.
If I try to call? Straight to voicemail.
If I ask her out? A polite but firm no.
Sometimes she just leaves me onread- and I swear, I canfeelthe rejection radiating off that littleseencheckmark.
Like today. I texted her ten minutes ago asking if she wanted to grab coffee. Crickets.
A couple hours before that, I texted just to check in, maybe bait her into lunch. Also nothing.
And the worst part? Sheseenzonedme.
Me.
Zach freaking Westbrook.
I haveneverbeen seen-zoned in my life. I'm the one who does the seen-zoning. That's supposed to bemypower move.
Do you know what it feels like to stare at those little gray words -seen 9:47 AM- and just... sit there? Like an idiot? Staring at your phone like maybe, just maybe, if you wait long enough she'll suddenly decide to reply?
Spoiler: she didn't.
I roll onto my back, groaning into my pillow like some lovesick idiot.
I really thought it would be easy, slipping back into our old rhythm after we finally hashed things out. Like, in my head, that was the hard part.
But apparently not.
Why I assumed that, I have no clue. She told me straight-up she couldn't promise me anything and fine, maybe that sounds like rejection to a normal person.
But me? No. I'm taking it as her cracking open the tiniest gap in that massive wall she's built around her heart.
Like... microscopic. Hairline crack small. The kind of crack you'd miss if you blinked.
But hey, a crack's a crack. I'll take it.
