You shouldn’t still be getting texts from her.

It’s been months since Van called it quits, since she pulled back with that half-smile and a string of excuses about how she’s not cut out for this, how she needs space, how she just doesn’t know how to be what you need. And yet…

Vanessa Palmer

Good morning, angel. I miss your beautiful face. You should come over soon.

The message sits at the top of your notifications, bright and insistent, like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged there.

Like nothing ever changed.

You stare at it, fingers hovering over the screen. Part of you wants to throw your phone across the room. Another part—one that’s weaker, one that still aches in the places she left hollow—wants to type out where? and be in her arms within the hour.

Because this is what Van does. She runs, but she never really leaves. She sends you messages like this, lets you think for a second that she regrets it, that she wants to fix things—but when you see her, when you get too close, when you try to hold onto her, she pulls away again. Every time.

And yet, it’s so easy to picture it. Her, leaning against her apartment doorframe, smirking like she didn’t break your heart. Her hair messy, plaid pajama pants slung low on her hips, a coffee cup in one hand, the other reaching for you.

“Hey, there’s my girl. You took too long.”

It’s cruel. It’s unfair. And it’s Van.

You close your eyes, exhale through your nose, and force yourself to lock your phone before you do something stupid.

But even then, the message lingers.

Because no matter how much space Van claims she needs, no matter how much she pretends she’s not built for love—

She still wants you. And you don’t know how to stop wanting her, too.