It was a prank. It was supposed to be a prank, I hadn’t meant to send it to him

Let me put y’all in context.

Me and my friends; Lyra, Charlotte and Emma, were having a sleepover, and with that, came the truth or dare game

Now, when I say these girls take the game seriously, I mean religiously. You don’t back out. You don’t hesitate. You don’t question the dare. You simply accept your fate and hope your social life survives the night.

It was around 1:30 a.m., which is the universal hour for poor decisions, when Emma — chaotic neutral embodied — pointed at me with that evil sparkle in her eye.

“Dare,” she said.

“I didn’t even pick—”

“Nope. Dare.”

The others cackled. I should’ve run. I should’ve thrown myself out the nearest window. Something. Anything. But no, I just sat there like a willing sacrifice.

Emma grabbed my phone, opened my messages, and scrolled through my contacts like she was choosing a victim in a horror movie.

“Who are you texting?” I asked, already terrified.

She didn’t answer.

Lyra and Charlotte leaned in over her shoulders, gasping and whisper-screaming like gremlins.

Then, with the absolute confidence of someone who wasn’t using her phone, Emma typed out a message — a message I didn’t see — and hit send.

I swear the universe went silent.

She slowly turned the phone toward me, and I felt my soul leave my body.

Because she hadn’t sent it to Lyra. Or Charlotte. Or anyone safe.

No.

She sent it to him.

The one person on this earth I should never, ever text at 1:30 a.m.

Our very hot, very young, very brooding new biology teacher, sure, we weren’t minors, sure we were in college but for fuck’s sake.

The message was— “hey if you ever need anyone to explore the human body with I’m available”

typing…

“What do I do?! WHAT DO I DO?!” I whisper-shouted, pacing the room like a Victorian widow.

“Delete yourself,” Lyra offered.

“Transfer schools,” Charlotte said.

“Fake your death,” Emma nodded sagely.

“I mean you basically just sexted our teacher” char muttered

I died. I perished. I decomposed on the spot.

Emma clapped like she had successfully summoned chaos.

Charlotte started planning what she’d say at my funeral.

Lyra hadn’t even finished whispering “rip” when my phone buzzed.

1 new message.

I froze. Everyone froze. Even the air froze.

Charlotte whispered, “Don’t open it.”

Emma hissed, “OPEN IT.”

With the dread of someone about to read their own autopsy report, I tapped the notification.

His reply lit up the screen:

“I… assume this was meant for someone else?”

My soul briefly reattached to my body.