Page 167 of The Play Maker

Six.

I haven’t clicked it in weeks. But now my finger hovers—and then taps.

The thread opens, and there they are. All the old messages. The late-night jokes, the gentle check-ins, the way he always knew how to talk me down when I was spiraling. My chest tightens.

He never replied to that last text I sent.

Which makes sense. I asked him not to.

It was the right thing. The healthy thing. But staring at the empty screen now, all I can think about is hownotempty it used to feel.

He saw me. Long before anyone else did.

And yeah, maybe we were just words on a screen. But those words kept me company when nothing else did. They gave me something to look forward to. They helped me hang on.

I swallow hard, pressing the phone to my chest for a second before locking it.

I don’t regret choosing Austin. Not for a second.

But a small part of me still misses the boy who helped me feel a little less invisible.

So I type out a message.

Me:

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I wanted to say thank you for every message. Every confession. You helped me more than you know. I miss talking to you, but I understand why you haven’t replied. I just wanted to tell you that… I met someone. His name is Austin, and I’m really happy. I think you’d like him.

Send.

The second my thumb taps the screen, something shifts. I exhale slowly, like I’ve just let go of something I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto.

I set the phone down beside me on the bed and sink back into Austin’s pillows. My cheeks ache from smiling.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, something glows, and I glance over.

Austin’s phone lights up on his nightstand, and I almost don’t think anything of it.

Until I see the preview.

And my whole body stills.

It’s my message. The one I sent not even thirty seconds ago.

Still glowing onhisscreen.

My heart stops.

No.

No no no no?—

I sit up, heart hammering in my chest.

That can’t be right. Thatcan’tbe right.

I sit up too fast, sheet clutched to my chest, heart thudding. Maybe it’s a glitch. A shared contact name. Something—anything—that isn’t what I think it is.

But when I get up and walk across the room, I see it again. I just stand there and stare at the screen like it might blink away and tell me I imagined it.