Not a single text. Not a missed call.
I swipe through my call log. Four calls. The first rang, the rest went straight to voicemail. I left her a message after the first two, but it was awkward and jumbled—an apologytangled up with excuses. I don’t even remember what I said. Probably just more rambling.
A knot tightens in my stomach, and I push off the bed, pacing my room. My hands find my hair, fingers knotting through the strands in frustration. Why couldn’t I just talk to her?
The truth is, she didn’t deserve any of it. Not my mood. Not my sharp words. Not the way I brushed her off like she didn’t matter.
I feel the familiar sting of guilt clawing its way up my chest, suffocating and thick. This is what I used to be. Angry. Reactive. I thought I’d left that behind. Thought I’d buried it deep enough that it couldn’t surface again.
But one bad day, and I snapped.
Gray
You free today?
I send the text and toss the phone onto the bed, pacing the room again. My hands feel restless, fingertips drumming against my thighs as I walk. What if she’s mad? What if I crossed a line I can’t come back from?
What if I ruined everything?
My phone vibrates in my hand, the screen lighting up with her name. My heart does this weird lurch, and I fumble to unlock it.
Ivy
Can I come over? We need to talk.
My heart drops straight to my stomach, the words blurring for a second before I can even process them.
We need to talk.
I sit down hard on the edge of the bed, my breathcoming quicker than it should. I’ve heard those words before. I know what they mean.
I type back, fingers fumbling slightly.
Gray
Of course. I’m here. Whenever you want.
I stare at the screen, waiting for those three dots to appear. They don’t. The screen stays still. Silent.
I exhale, head hanging low as I rub my palms together. I can’t lose this. I can’t lose her. Not because of my own mistakes. Not because I let old demons crawl back to the surface.
I close my eyes, pressing my palms together. It’s not a graceful prayer. It’s barely a whisper. But it’s real.
“God, help me fix this. Help me make it right.”
I pace the length of my living room, back and forth, hands rubbing together like I can burn off the tension pooling in my chest. I straightened up the apartment twice—fluffed the couch pillows, wiped down the counters, even ran a quick vacuum across the floor. Not that Ivy would care, but I needed something to do with my hands.
Her text still flashes in my mind:We need to talk.
I can’t shake the feeling that it’s bad news. That she’s going to walk in, sit down across from me, and tell me she can’t do this anymore. That my mess, my baggage, my brokenness, is too much.
I hear a soft knock on the door, and my heart lurches. I pause, inhaling deeply before making my way over. Myhand hesitates on the knob for half a second before I twist it open.
She stands there, eyes a little softer than I expected, but her shoulders are tense, one hand gripping the strap of her bag like it’s her lifeline.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey you.” My voice is rougher than I intend. I step back, holding the door wider. “Come in.”
