He tells himself he is not waiting. He is just awake.
The room is dark except for the phone on the nightstand. Screen down. Silent. He has turned notifications off and on three times already, as if the device might respond differently if he changes the rules.
3:58 A.M.
He has not slept. He has not even laid down. The bed feels like a stage set for someone else’s life. He sits on the edge, elbows on his knees, phone warm in his palm.
He scrolls back through the thread. Again.
Her last message is harmless. Too harmless. A sentence that could mean anything. Or nothing. A sentence that ends with a period instead of a heart. He has already rewritten it six different ways in his head.
He types. Deletes. Types again.
Are you awake?
Deletes.
Sorry if that came out wrong earlier.
Deletes.
He settles on something safe. Something neutral. Something that cannot be misunderstood.
At least that is what he tells himself.
The message sends at 4:09 A.M.
Delivered.
The word appears instantly. Bright. Final.
His chest tightens.
He stares at the screen like it might blink first.
He imagines her phone lighting up in the dark. Imagines her waking and seeing his name. Imagines her sighing. Imagines her rolling her eyes. Imagines her typing and stopping. Imagines her deciding not to answer.
Delivered does not mean read.
That is worse.
4:11 A.M.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
He refreshes the screen though nothing changes. He presses his thumb against the glass, hard enough to leave a print.
He thinks about every conversation they have had recently. Every moment he laughed too late or answered too fast. Every time he said “it’s fine” when it was not.
The phone stays quiet.
4:17 A.M.
His mind starts filling the silence for her.
She is angry. She is done. She is showing the message to someone else. She is asleep beside someone else.
Each possibility feels sharper than the last.
He opens her profile photo. Zooms in. Out. In again. As if her face might explain what her words did not.
4:23 A.M.
He checks if she was active recently. The app tells him she was online ten minutes ago.
His stomach drops.
She saw it.
Or she saw something else.
He imagines the message sitting there on her screen like a stain. He imagines her rereading it with a tone he did not mean. He imagines punctuation becoming accusation. Timing becoming guilt.
4:31 A.M.
Still nothing.
He sends another message before he can stop himself.
I didn’t mean that the wrong way.
Delivered.
The word feels louder this time. He feels exposed. He feels like he has knocked twice on a door that will never open.
4:40 A.M.
His thoughts turn mean.
Why would she leave him like this? Why would she let him spiral? Why would she read and not respond?
He hates himself for thinking that. He hates her for making him think it.
The phone buzzes.
His whole body jerks.
A typing bubble appears.
Then disappears.
He stares at the spot where it was, heart pounding, breath shallow.
That was worse than silence.
That means she started. That means she stopped.
He imagines the sentence she did not send. Imagines the versions that hurt the most.
4:52 A.M.
Nothing.
He cannot remember the last time he felt this awake. This raw. This hunted.
The room feels smaller. The dark presses in. Every sound from outside feels like an interruption.
He checks the message status again.
Read.
The timestamp updates quietly.
He feels cold all over.
She read it and chose nothing.
The horror is not that she might leave.
The horror is that he will never truly know why.
By morning, he will reread everything and convince himself he imagined the tone. He will apologize for things he did not do. He will soften himself until there is nothing left sharp enough to say the truth.
But right now, at 4:58 A.M., all he knows is that his words arrived.
And whatever they became on her screen is out of his control.
The phone goes dark, but he does not.
