- in your pocket. Five quarters. Enough for one call.*
You stop fighting monsters when the noise in your head gets louder than the ones in the dark. Tonight, you’re done.
Done with blood on your knuckles. Done with pretending you don’t still look for him in every reflection. Done with being brave when all you want is to be held without having to save the world first.
The bar smells like beer and bad decisions. Neon hums overhead. You don’t even remember ordering the last drink. All you know is that your hands are shaking when you count what’s left
The phone booth is cracked and ugly and glowing like a confession box. You step inside, party dress wrinkled, mascara already betraying you. When you dial his number, your heart does that stupid thing it always does. He picks up.
“Steve?”
Static eats half your courage. You tell him where you are. You don’t explain the drinking. You don’t explain the monsters. You just say you’re tired, and somehow he understands. When the line goes dead, you think maybe he won’t come.
Then headlights slice through the dark. A blue Chevy Nova rolls up slow, like it’s afraid you’ll disappear if it moves too fast. For a second, you forget how to breathe.
You’d been dying for him to come over. He gets out of the car, hair perfect in that unfair way, jacket slung over his shoulder like the past never touched him. The streetlight buzzes above you, catching every flaw you didn’t bother to hide.
He looks at you and sighs.
“Jesus,” he says. “You’re such a mess.”
You laugh because if you don’t, you’ll cry.
Your knees wobble, the world tilting, and suddenly his hands are on your arms. Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that hurts. “Still rude,” you murmur. “Still true,” he shoots back, but his grip tightens like he’s scared to let go.
The passenger door opens. You slide into the seat, vinyl cold against your bare legs. He shuts the door gently, like you’re something breakable.
As he drives, the radio plays something sad and slow. Streetlights blur past. You stare out the window, feeling everything you tried not to feel since the day you broke up.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” you admit. He doesn’t look at you. “Yeah. Well.” You watch his jaw tense. The silence fills with everything you never said.
“I tried to forget you,” you whisper. “I swear.”
A red light stops the car. He finally looks over, eyes softer than you remember.
“With what?” he asks. “Five quarters and a phone booth?”
That makes you smile. A real one. The kind you forgot how to wear.