The clock says 3:14 a.m. My room is blue with streetlight. I lie there, listening to the sound of my own breathing, until my phone buzzes softly on the nightstand. A message. For a second, my brain refuses to believe it.
CAL: Hey. It’s Cal. From the rink.
I stare at the screen. My pulse jumps.
Then another message appears.
CAL: Sorry if this is weird. Just wanted to say your photos were incredible. You’ve got a good eye.
I type, then erase. Type again. My fingers shake.
Thanks. You played well.
Too short. Delete.
Thanks. You were fun to photograph.
Too flirty. Delete.
ROSE: Thanks. That means a lot.
Simple. Safe.
I hit send before I can overthink it. The typing bubble flashes, then disappears. Flashes again.
CAL: Didn’t think you’d answer.
ROSE: Why wouldn’t I?
CAL: Dunno. You seemed… out of my league.
I laugh gently into the dark.
ROSE: I think that’s the first time anyone’s said that to a photographer covered in coffee stains.
There’s a pause.
CAL: You underestimate yourself.
I stare at the words until they blur.
He sends one more.
CAL: Anyway. Didn’t mean to wake you. Just couldn’t sleep.
My fingers hover. I could leave it there. I should leave it there. Instead, I type.
ROSE: Yeah. Me neither.
Then nothing. Just silence and the faint sound of rain starting against the window. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like silence. It feels like a beginning.
Morning comes pale and slow. My phone’s still beside me, screen dark, no new messages. I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, and try to decide if I imagined the whole thing. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what I want it to be. But as I scroll through the photos one last time before sending them to theHerald, my eyes find his face again; focused, unguarded, and human, and something in me shifts.
Maybe it’s not about the accident anymore. Maybe it’s about what comes after. And maybe I’m ready to find out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CALLUM
