“Jesus Christ.” My head hit the seat. She wanted to watch a movie—with me. Like we were us again.
Me: I’d absolutely love that, Emma. I’m driving home—give me fifteen minutes?
Blank screen. No typing.
But I didn’t care. A door had been cracked open, and I wasn’t going to miss my chance to slip through.
I slammed the gearshift into drive and tore through the streets.
Twelve minutes—and more than a few broken traffic laws—later, I skidded to a stop. Cake in hand, keys tossed to the valet, I sprinted for the elevator. The ascent felt endless. I jabbed the button again, again, watching numbers crawl—10…20…30...
Come on.
My phone buzzed.
E: Take your time. I’m just getting snacks ready.
Relief hit so hard I sagged against the wall, eyes closing. She was still there. Still waiting.
45…46…47…48.
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened onto the still glow of my apartment—the flicker of the fireplace, dark wood, ordered calm that suddenly felt too still.
Me: Just walked in. Give me two minutes. What snacks are we having?
Keys hit the table. I sank into the couch, chest tight. The TV flared to life—Bella. Edward. A piano line I hadn’t realized I still remembered.
E: Chocolate. It’s been a very emotional twenty-four hours.
Guilt clawed at my throat.
Me: That’s fair.
E: I’m sending my number. I don’t want to message through this app anymore.
The next text delivered as promised.
I understood instantly. Read wasn’t just a name—it was a ghost, a version of me built on half-truths and distance. A mask she had every right to bury.
But this—stepping beyond it—felt like shedding skin. The first breath of something real.
My hands shook as I saved it. Emma. Not E. Not the alias. Just her.
I opened a new thread—no mask, no disguise.
Me: Hey, Emma. It’s me.
It wasn’t poetic. But it was true.
If she answered now, she’d be answering me.
Not the mask.
Not the lie.
Not Read.
