The phone lights up on the coffee table, vibrating loudly in the stillness of the evening. It’s almost funny how predictable he is. You sigh, already knowing the contents of his message before it even flashes across the screen. It’s a routine you’ve come to expect—long days of silence, only for him to appear the moment you start to move on, the minute you stop expecting it.

The text pops up, and your eyes skim over it, the words exactly what you anticipated. Apologies about how he feels "guilty" about the whole game he started, and a long, detailed apology that you won't even read anyway. It’s the same thing every time, the same cadence, the same sweet-but-shallow gestures. You could almost write it yourself by now. It’s almost as if he assume you’ll drop everything to give him all your love, as though you’re still caught up in his rhythm. But tonight, you just watch the phone, your lips curling into a half-smile, feeling oddly amused.

Memories surface, bringing back every late-night call and sweet promises made between laughter and empty streets, only to be followed by stretches of silence when he’d disappear without warning. It’s not the first time, and you know it won’t be the last. It’s like he thinks you love him too much that you wouldn't dare to let go, that he can pull you back in whenever he chose. But this time, it’s different. You’ve seen the signs and read between the lines too many times.

You pick up the phone, fingers hovering over the screen, debating a reply. The rush of predictability is almost comforting but irritatingly so. He knows exactly what to say, and you know exactly what he's after. It’s like dancing to a song you know too well, each step practiced, each beat anticipated. You shake your head, feeling a mix of nostalgia and clarity. Maybe you’ll reply; maybe you won’t. But this time, you’re the one who’s a step ahead.