I smile before I can stop myself.
The one that deserves an apology.Textually Frustrated.
She doesn’t know me. Not really. But somehow she sees straight through me anyway. And I owe her more than silence.
Pulling out my phone, I open our thread. Her name stares back at me, bright and unbothered, like it hasn’t been collecting dust while I ran away, kissed a girl, and bought a new couch.
Let’s see if she’s still speaking to me.
So, hypothetically, if someone completely shut you down while you were sharing really exciting news, how badly would you drag them for it?
I stare at it, then unsend it.
Too try-hard.
I type:What’s the penalty for being a total ass? Asking for a friend.
Delete.
Even worse.
I try again:Guess who’s back from the brooding dead?
Delete.
God, no. Am I okay?
I exhale, press my thumbs to the keyboard, and finally go with what I should’ve said days ago:
Me: Hey. Sorry for being a dick.
Sent.
My chest tightens as I watch the screen, eyes locked on the empty space where her reply should be.
Seconds tick by.
A minute.
Then two.
Read.
No reply.
Oof.
Her rejection stings. The weight of it is suddenly unbearable, the phone falls into my lap.
Another connection fractured. Another thing I might’ve ruined because I couldn’t get out of my own damn way.
I lean back on the couch—my couch, my clean slate—and stare up at the ceiling like it holds answers.
It doesn’t.
I need to fix this.
A few hours—and one personal meltdown in Hobby Lobby later—my loft looks like a kindergarten art project mated with a disco ball and filed for divorce.
