Liar.
She's right. Emma was right, too. Said I felt too much. Before the foam. Before the cold. Before I turned feelings into fists.
Go to sleep, Angel.
Can't. Too wired. Too angry. Too...
Lonely.
I know lonely. I live in lonely, and I can recognize it through a screen.
I didn't say that.
Didn't have to. You kept texting a wrong number. That says everything.
Seven minutes passes. She finally types.
This is stupid. We should stop.
Yes.
But?
But you'll text tomorrow.
That's presumptuous.
That's accurate.
She will. I know it. Feel it. It’s just the way that lonely calls to lonely.
Goodnight, Angel.
It's past midnight. Technically morning.
Deflection. Humor. Shield up.
Technically you're deflecting.
Technically you're still a stranger who could be dangerous.
Definitely dangerous. Never claimed otherwise.
It should scare her. But I know it won't. She pulls bullets from children. Knows dangerous. Lives with it. Like I do.
That should make me block you.
Should. Won't.
Goodnight, Wrong Number.
She texted Ray she got me. Clearly a mistake. Best mistakes are accidents. This feels like that. Like Emma finding me after our parents died. Until it wasn't. Until she was gone.
My phone buzzes once more.
Thank you.
For what?
