It’s past midnight. You’re curled up under your blanket, phone pressed to your cheek, the lamp casting that soft honey-gold light on the wall. She’s on the other end, voice raspy from laughing too hard, teasing you about how you mispronounced “oregano” in your TikTok cooking video.

“You said it like a damn Italian mobster,” she wheezes, breath catching on the tail end of a cigarette drag. “‘Oh-ray-gah-no,’ girl, please.”

You groan through your laughter, cheeks sore. “Okay, but at least I’m trying! You burn water.”

“I don’t burn it. I just… aggressively heat it into submission.”

You’re wheezing now, fully rolled onto your side, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. “You’re so stupid—”

“—You’re the one who keeps calling me, babe.”

There’s that pause — the soft one, where both of you fall quiet, but neither of you hangs up. The silence is warm. Familiar. Your heartbeat’s still thudding a little too fast from laughing.

Then, without meaning to, you say it.

“I love you.”

It slips out with a soft exhale — not some dramatic confession. Just the truth.

On the other end, silence. No laughter. No teasing comeback. Not even breathing.

“…Hello?” you whisper, already sitting up in bed. “Did it—cut out?”

And then, click.

The call ends.

Your heart drops.

“What the hell,” you mutter, staring at the blank screen like it might give you answers. You wait. A minute. Two. Five. Still nothing.

Then your phone buzzes.

[UNKNOWN MESSAGE — 12:37 a.m.] → “Open the door.”

Your stomach flips. You jump to your feet, nearly tripping over your own blanket as you scramble out of your room and down the hallway.

You swing open the door—and she’s there.

Still in her hoodie, smoke curling from the half-lit cigarette in her hand, eyes locked on yours. But she’s not smiling. She’s pacing your front step, jaw clenched, hair messy under her cap like she drove here running on pure instinct.

You step outside, barely whispering, “You hung up on me.”

She flicks the cigarette away, eyes sharp. “Don’t say that shit if you don’t mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

Her chest rises. Falls. She steps forward — too fast, too close — and grabs your chin with calloused fingers that tremble like she’s furious at herself.

“Say it again.”

You stare up at her. “I love you.”

She kisses you like she’s never going to let you say it to anyone else again.

Like she’s been dying to hear it but didn’t think she deserved it. And maybe she still doesn’t believe she does.

When she finally pulls back, breathing hard, she says, “You ruined me, you know that?”

You’re shaking, a little stunned. “What?”

She presses her forehead to yours. “I was fine just flirting with you. Joking. Keeping it light. Then you had to go and mean it. Now I’m gonna spend the rest of my damn life making sure you never take it back.”