Noah doesn’t stir.
I stare at the screen like it might explode.
No number.
Just a notification.
Unknown Sender
I don’t open it.
I can’t.
I stare until my eyes burn and my chest tightens and the room feels too small to hold me.
Another buzz.
This time the screen lights up with text.
You’re packing like you think you’re coming back.
My breath leaves me in a silent rush.
My fingers curl into the sheets.
I don’t type back.
I don’t need to.
A third message appears almost immediately, like he knows exactly how long it takes my pulse to spike.
You always did that.
Planned exits you never used.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Kai.
I don’t write his name.
I don’t want to give him that.
But the locket is heavy against my skin and my body remembers him in ways my mind doesn’t want to catalogue.
Another message.
Don’t go.
Two words.
Not a plea.
A statement.
My throat tightens painfully.
I don’t know what to feel.
