My phone has been face-down on the table for a while.

Not because I didn’t see the notification—because I did. The screen lit up softly beside my tea, just bright enough to catch my eye while I was pretending to read.

Instagram.

I told myself I’d look later. When I was finished with this page. When the kettle boiled again. When I’d earned the distraction.

Another vibration proves how flimsy that resolve is. I turn the phone over slowly, like it might vanish if I move too fast.

One message.

Direct.

Not a comment.

Not public.

Private.

I sit there longer than I need to, thumb resting along the edge of the screen. There’s a familiar caution in me—years of learning when not to open things, when to let something pass without inviting it closer. But there’s curiosity too. And something quieter beneath it. Something that doesn’t feel careless.

I unlock my phone.

The room is still. No sound but the low hum of the heater and my own breath as I finally open the message.

I read.