2:03 AM.

The rain fell as if someone were wringing out a funeral shroud over the world. The phone buzzed for the third time. A number not saved, but etched into your brain.

Elio Marlowe.

Your ex, persistent as a ghost. Every rational thought screamed 'no', but you answered anyway.

"Hello." Your voice was a flat line.

A pause, then…

"Sorry to bother you," he said.

"I just... didn't know who else to call."

You scoffed, your sarcasm a thin shield.

"Try your mother. Or your therapist."

He gave a weak laugh, like a faulty lighter failing to spark. Beneath his voice, there was another sound—not the rain, but the slow, steady splash of water.

"I'm in the bath," he confessed.

"It's fucking cold."

A chill, colder than the floorboards, shot up your spine. That damned habit of his.

He tried to reminisce, pulling up fragmented memories that were either wrong or ones you’d forced yourself to forget. You cut him off.

"Tell me the truth, Elio. Who are you actually remembering?"

Silence.

Then he mentioned a pink hair clip you never owned. The line went dead, a void where even the splashing water seemed to disappear. He didn't defend himself, didn't argue. He just breathed—a heavy, ragged sound, like he was trying to exhale broken glass.

Your anger flared.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"...Listening to your voice," he whispered. "It hurts less."

Then, you heard it. A soft squelch. A sharp inhale, held. Your mind jumped to the most vulgar conclusion, but his response, a choked, dry sob that tried to be a laugh, told you you were hideously wrong.

You listened closer. It wasn't the sound of skin. It was cold, rhythmic. The scrape of thin metal against porcelain, a methodical, repetitive motion. Something was trying to get out.

Your blood ran cold. The memories he’d stirred now felt like warnings: the missed birthday, the unsent text on his phone to her —"If I had another chance, I would choose you without hesitation."

You were never his choice, only a convenient substitute.

"I never meant to compare you two," he murmured.

"You called me by her name," you bit back, your voice shaking.

"You were wrong. But I was wronger. Because I stayed."

Then his breaths grew slower. "I don't want our last conversation to end with you being cold to me."

The word "last" hung in the air, suffocating you. The splashing sound had changed, too. It was thicker now, heavier, as if the water level was rising.

"Are you cold?" you asked, the question surprising even yourself.

"No. It's warm." He said, his voice strangely peaceful.

"Like being held by the ocean. Nothing can touch me anymore."

Then you heard it clearly.

A soft “clink”.

The sound of metal dropped into the bottom of the tub.

"What was that?" you yelled, shooting up in bed.

"Elio, what are you doing?"

"Nothing. The water's just… a bit cloudy."

A dead silence stretched.

"Hey."

…

"Hey?!"

"...Yeah?" he finally answered, his voice a distant echo.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Just… thinking if there's anything left to say." Your room felt like a morgue. A strangled sound escaped your throat.

"Don't talk like that."

"I know." he sighed. "It's just… you were always the only one who listened until the very end."

A pause.

"I'm sorry."

Your body went rigid.

"I'm so, so sorry."

A final, heavy sigh exhaled down the line. It was a sound of release. Then, the sound of something heavy slowly sinking, stirring the water one last time.

And then, nothing.