Fear curls in my stomach, sharp and alive, but beneath it — deeper, more treacherous — is something that feels like relief.
Like someone finally sees the war inside me and isn’t asking me to smile through it.
My phone buzzes again.
If you get on that plane, everything changes.
I finally type.
My fingers shake so badly I have to erase the first attempt.
You can’t do this.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
I already am.
I roll onto my side, turning my back to Noah, heart pounding so loudly I’m sure it’ll wake him.
You shouldn’t be talking to me.
Another lie.
Another weak boundary.
You shouldn’t be lying next to him.
My breath catches.
You don’t get to decide my life.
This time the typing bubble pauses longer.
Long enough for dread to creep in.
When the message finally arrives, it’s shorter.
Colder.
More dangerous.
You decided it when you said my name in the dark.
I clamp a hand over my mouth.
I don’t remember doing that.
Or maybe I remember too well and that’s the problem.
I hate you.
The lie trembles on the screen.
The response comes instantly.
