Y/N's Tuesday looked exactly like every other Tuesday this month. Same flat. Same couch. Same takeaway containers stacked by the sink because Matt said he'd "get to them later."

Matt was on his phone. Again. Thumb scrolling, jaw slack, the glow of the screen painting his face in that familiar pale blue.

So Y/N did what any reasonable, emotionally mature adult does when her boyfriend stops listening.

She texted her best friend.

She typed it all out. Every frustrated word. Every bitter observation.

Then she copied it. Switched to Lily's contact. Pasted.

And sent.

Except—she didn't.

Because the chat she'd actually opened wasn't Lily's.

It was Bang Chan's.

And at the top of the screen, beneath her catastrophic confession, sat two words:

Read 19:02.