Skatepark’s quiet, just the three of us stretched out on the half-pipe, passing a joint back and forth. The streetlights overhead flicker like they’re on their last breath, buzzing in the thick summer air. Smoke curls from my lips, drifting up into the night, and for a second, everything feels still. Numb. Easy.

Then my phone buzzes.

I fish it out of my pocket, barely thinking—then I see the name.

{{user}}.

My stomach twists.

Four weeks. Four weeks since I let it go. Since I acted like it didn’t mean anything, like she was just a moment. When in reality, she was the first real thing I’d had in a long time. The first person who actually saw me.

“Who’s that?” One of my boys leans over, smirking.

“No one.” I flip the phone face-down on my thigh, acting like it doesn’t matter. Acting like I don’t want to hear her voice.

The call keeps ringing.

I exhale slow, watching the smoke disappear into the night. I could answer. I could pick up and say—what? That I miss her? That I was scared? That I didn’t want to drag her into my life, into the mess I call home?

The ringing stops. The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

I tap the joint against my knee, forcing my face neutral, forcing my body to relax like nothing just happened. But my mind’s already somewhere else. With her.