And then hot.
And then nothing.
My hand hovers over the screen.
Just hovers.
I don’t breathe because breathing feels too loud. Too dangerous. Like it might break something delicate and irretrievable in the air.
1 New Voicemail.
The notification glows at me in the dim light like a pair of eyes staring back.
The room pulses.
The locket on my chest feels heavier than gold—like metal isn’t enough to describe it. It feels like claim. Like evidence. Like proof.
Proof that last night wasn’t a hallucination.
Proof that he was here.
Proof that he heard every drunken confession I just bled into his voicemail.
My thumb shakes as I lift the phone.
My pulse hammers so loudly I feel it in my fingertips.
I swallow hard.
My throat feels raw, like I’d swallowed sand.
The wine churns in my stomach.
This is a bad idea.
This is the worst idea I’ve ever had.
And yet—My thumb presses the notification.
The voicemail opens.
I hit Play.
There’s no greeting. No silence. No hesitation.
He starts speaking immediately.
Low.
Controlled.
Too calm for the words he’s saying.
“I told myself I wasn’t going to pick up.”
The sound of his voice slices straight down my spine.
I grip the sofa cushion to keep myself steady.
