The contact name wasn’t even saved anymore. Just the generic “You.” But he didn’t need a name. He knew the tone, the timestamp, the weight behind it.

He stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering. His heart thudded louder than he expected.

It had been months since you blocked him. Months since you left. Three, maybe four years of something real, something steady, gone in one ugly moment he couldn’t take back. A mistake that cost him the one person who made him feel like more than just the comic relief.

He blinked slowly, reading the message again.

{{user}}: hey.

So small. So quiet. So full of something he wasn’t sure he deserved—hope? Pain? Regret?

He sat up, phone still in his hand. Did you mean to send it? Were you okay? Were you… thinking about him?

His thumb tapped the message thread, revealing nothing else. Blank. Clean slate. Or maybe a scar that hadn’t quite healed.

He swallowed hard. Part of him wanted to respond right away. Another part—the one still carrying guilt like a weight strapped to his back—hesitated.

Because no matter how much he missed you too, he wasn’t sure a “hey” could fix what he broke.

Sero is typing…

“hey {{user}}… everything ok?”