Because if I don’t hold onto that, what else is there?
When I make it back up to my room, my legs are shaking, and my shirt’s clinging to my skin in patches, half-dried sweat still sticking in places I’ll regret if I don’t shower soon. The ache in my arms is manageable—familiar even—but it’s nothing compared to the grinding under my ribs. The kind that comes with seeing something you shouldn’t have seen and knowing it’s no one’s fault but your own for it hurting so goddamn much.
I sit on the edge of my bed, phone in my hand, thumb hovering over Noah’s name. It’s not that I don’t have the words. I do. I’ve drafted them in my head a dozen different ways:Hey, how’s it going?, orSettling in alright?Or even something as stupid asYou still hate Mondays?None of them feels right. They all sound like cowardice dressed up as meaningless small talk.
I blow out a slow breath through my nose and stare at the screen, almost talking myself out of it twice. Then I remember the look on his face earlier. The sound of his laugh. The way his eyes creased at the corners.
So, I type.
Me: Hey, Blue.
I hesitate a second before hitting send, then I toss the phone onto the comforter. I get up, strip off my shirt, and let the sweat-slicked fabric hit the floor before I head to the shower. I keep it quick, just enough to wash the grime of the day off. I leave the water cold, because it grounds me. Wakes me up in places I’ve been too numb to feel.
When I come back, towel around my shoulders and hair still damp, the message light is on. One new text.
Noah: Didn’t expect to hear from you a whole month later.
I stare at the words, heart thumping once, then settling into a dull, steady rhythm. He’s being snarky, that’s good.
Me: Yeah, I figured. Wasn’t sure if I should say anything.
There’s a pause. Three blinking dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Noah: It’s okay. Just surprised, that’s all. How are you?
I sit down, towel forgotten, the edge of my mattress dipping under my weight. My fingers hover, then move fast.
Me: Been better. Had a rough day. You?
A minute goes by before he answers.
Noah: Same. Long day. Trying not to burn dinner right now lol.
That makes me smile. I can picture it—Noah in the kitchen, probably with music playing, sleeves pushed up, something simple simmering on the stove while his laptop glows from the counter. I don’t shove it out.
Me: What are you making?
There’s a pause before a little audio notification pops up. A voice message.
I hesitate for half a second before hitting play.
His voice comes through a little muffled as if the phone has been set on the counter. There’s clattering in the background—pans, maybe something boiling.
“Uh, chicken stir fry, I think? Unless I burn it, then it’s just going to be pasta and shame. Sorry for the voice message, but my hands are full. Also, hi.”There’s a pause, then a soft sigh.“It’s good to hear from you, Mien.”
I replay it twice just to hear the warmth tucked into the edges of his voice when he calls meMien. He doesn’t sound mad, or even wary. I thumb out a quick reply.
Me: You going all gourmet on me, Blue?
Another voice message buzzes in, and I hit play immediately.
“Excuse you, I’ll have you know I make a mean stir fry when I’m not being judged by tall, tattooed basketball players who disappear for four years.”
That one stings a little, but his tone isn’t sharp. It’s light and almost teasing. Perhaps the anger has dulled with time. Ormaybe he just doesn’t want to reopen old wounds tonight. Either way, I take it.
Me: Tall and tattooed, huh? Sounds hot.
The next one is quieter, but I can hear him snort under his breath before he talks.“Don’t make me laugh, I’ll drop the pan.”
