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Me:Are you okay?
I stare at my message unblinking, but he doesn’t reply. Of course, he doesn’t. Why would he? He’s obviously done and over me.
I’ll get over him too.
In about a hundred years.
I fall asleep without eating dinner, my phone clutched to my chest.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up and feel like my entire body has been slammed into the ground. I’m achy and shaking. My mouth is dry, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. This flu is progressing. I should probably go to urgent care.
I take a long sip of water to stay hydrated but still feel completely wrung out. My heart feels funny in my chest. It positively aches.
It’s probably congestive heart failure. I should just call an ambulance now and have the EMTs stick around and wait for me to keel over.
The reaper will come for me soon.
My phone pings, and I jump, stubbing my toe against the leg of the bed. My brain kicks on, and I frantically scramble to grab it. I end up scraping my forearm along my nightstand instead. Those corners should be illegal. Who designed this thing? They should be in jail for attempted murder. I glance at my throbbing arm and note the long red stripe running across my skin.
Fuck.
My phone pings again, and all of my pain is forgotten as I dive for it. But my shitty little phone slips across the covers and falls between the wall and headboard. So, I drop to my knees and stretch for it, the tips of my fingers touching the screen as I begin to move it toward me. But then something snaps as I tilt my neck, and I flinch as pain shoots down my spine.
I clasp the phone in my hand and roll onto my back, groaning loudly.
Oh fuck. I’m falling apart.
My skeletal system is disintegrating right before my eyes.
But despite it all, I still manage to lift that phone above my face and see his messages.
He texted me.
He wrote me back.
My entire body clenches as I gasp.
Luke:I’m okay.
Luke:Made it home safe.
Quick. Think. What do I text back? Something poetic, professing how sorry I am, telling him how much I miss him.
Come back. Come home.
Me:Good
Oh fuck. That’s not what I wanted to say. I didn’t even add a period. It seems so unfinished. Like, I don’t care that he’s gone. Will he notice? Fuck. He will, won’t he?
I have to fix this.
Me:Good.
I stare at my screen, groan, and slap it face down onto the floor. A sickening crack echoes around the room, and I nearly cry when I see what I’ve done.
My phone screen is broken to pieces.
