The city hummed outside Y/n's window, indifferent.
Three months, two weeks, and four days.
Not that Y/n was counting. The phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, mocking. Every notification made the heart lurch. Every buzz was a tiny death.
The breakup playlist had been played so many times the songs felt like a second skeleton.
It was 1:47 AM when the thumbs finally moved on their own.
The message box opened. The cursor blinked. The words typed themselves, one agonizing letter at a time.
???
i know i shouldn't be texting you
Y/n stared at the words. At the unsent confession of weakness. At the crack in the carefully constructed wall of no contact, no attachment, i'm fine.
The phone buzzed with the weight of the decision.
Send.
The word deliveredfelt like a gunshot in the dark room.
