I don’t want silence to turn into distance.
The words keep replaying, soft but persistent.
I know I need to organize my feelings. I know I owe them honesty. Real honesty, not the kind that keeps everyone comfortable but leaves me quietly alone with the mess.
But I don’t know where I stand.
Not with Boone, still closed off and raw in ways he doesn’t like admitting.
Not with Silas, earnest and bright and trying so hard not to overwhelm me.
Not with Caleb, who sees more than he says and somehow makes me want to be braver than I feel.
And definitely not with the number sitting in my pocket like a dare.
Later, when the house settles into its nighttime hush, doors closing, footsteps fading, Boone’s voice softening down the hall, I end up alone in my room with my phone in my hand as if it appeared there without my consent.
The scrap of paper Savannah gave me sits on the nightstand. Flattened. Innocent. Just ink and a phone number.
It shouldn’t scare me like this.
But my body remembers kitchens that were too loud, too hot, too full of eyes watching for mistakes. It remembers being wanted until I wasn’t. Being praised until the praise turned conditional. Being told I was lucky to be there.
I tell myself this isn’t that. I don’t have to do anything—I just have to know.
That’s reasonable. Adult. Information gathering. Not a commitment. Not a betrayal. Just… curiosity.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the ceiling for a long second.
“This is not a big deal,” I whisper, like saying it out loud will make it true.
My chest tightens anyway.
I think about Caleb’s face when he spoke earlier, about how careful he was not to corner me. I think about how much harder it would be to explain this after the fact.
I’m not asking you to decide anything.
I swallow.
Then I dial.
The phone rings.
Once.
Twice.
Each buzz sends a small, sharp spike through my chest that feels unpleasantly familiar. My body remembers this feeling even if my brain insists this is different. It remembers anticipation dressed up as opportunity. It remembers how fast curiosity can turn into obligation.
It goes to voicemail.
I don’t leave a message. I don’t hang up right away either. I let it click over on its own, like backing out would somehow mean more than trying.
When the call ends, the silence rushes in fast.
I exhale.
Okay. That’s it. Mystery solved. I tried. I can tell myself that and move on with my life like a responsible, emotionally regulated person who does not spiral over phone numbers.
