Toji’s name flashed across your screen—the same contact you swore you’d delete after things ended. But you never did. Maybe out of habit. Maybe out of weakness. Maybe because, deep down, you were still waiting for something that would never come.

He only called when he was high. Always at night, always when he was out of his mind. And you never answered. Just sat there, watching the phone ring, waiting for it to stop. Because when he was sober, it was like you never existed. No calls, no texts. Nothing.

Tonight was no different. The phone buzzed in your hand, the sound filling the silence of your room. You stared at the screen, fingers twitching over the decline button, torn between ending this cycle for good or picking up just once—just to tell him off, to remind him that you weren’t someone he could just reach for when the world got blurry.

The ringing stopped.

A moment later, your screen lit up again. This time, a message.

“I miss ur voice, baby.”

Your breath hitched, fingers tightening around your phone. Same old Toji. Same old game.