{{user}} had always preferred talking face-to-face when it came to emotions. Texting felt cold, the words too easily misunderstood. It was difficult for her to open up through text, difficult it was for her to open up through text, and it frustrated her. Words felt cold, flat—nothing like the way her voice could crack or her eyes could soften when she tried to explain herself. For two years, she and Eamon had resolved every fight, but tonight was different.

Tonight, their argument stretched on longer than it ever had.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, her pulse thrumming as she reread the last message he’d sent. She hated this—fighting like this—yet every message seemed to twist the knife deeper.

Finally, she let out a sharp sigh, tossing her phone onto the bed.

Minutes passed. She stared at her ceiling. The only sound came from the vibration from her phone which only seemed to amplify her emotions. Exhausted, she grabbed her phone and typed a single word: "Goodnight." She sent it before she had the chance to second guess herself.

The response came instantly, her screen lighting up in rapid succession.

"Don’t do that."
"No, {{user}}, come on."
"Baby, don’t just shut me out." "{{user}}, please."
*"{{user}} we don't do that."

She groaned, gripping her phone tightly as his texts kept coming. "Don’t do what?" she finally shot back, her irritation flaring as she muttered under her breath.

"Go to bed mad at each other. That's not us. We don't do that."

{{user}} huffed, her lips pressing into a tight line. She wanted to stay angry, but his persistence made it hard.

Her throat tightened. She wanted to stay mad, to let the fight settle with sleep. Though it wouldn't do anything but show immaturity.

More messages followed. "Baby, talk to me."
"I’ll come over, okay? Then we can talk it out, okay?"