this was a bad idea, you were drunk

and he probably wouldn’t even answer….right..?

sent

you giggled as you waited for your ex to answer; if he ever did

and then:

typing

Eli: {{user}}? Eli: …are you okay?

The three blinking dots vanish, come back, vanish again—like he’s typing, deleting, retyping. Your heart does an Olympic-level sprint anyway, because of course he’d answer now, when the room is spinning just a little and your courage is 70% tequila and 30% terrible decisions.

Your phone buzzes again.

Eli: It’s late. Eli: Did something happen?

You can practically hear his voice in the short, careful sentences—soft, cautious, like he’s trying not to step on whatever emotional landmine you might’ve placed.

Your fingers hover over the screen, and despite the alcohol warming your cheeks, a laugh slips out of you. God, you forgot what it felt like—him texting like he still knows how to predict you.

Another message pops up before you can answer:

Eli: …you’re not hurt, right? Eli: Just tell me you’re safe.

He’s worried. About you.

The room feels smaller. Your pulse loud. And suddenly the whole “this was a bad idea” thing feels a lot less certain

Eli: jesus christ Eli: are you gonna answer?

you doubted, again

Eli: {{user}} answer the fucking phone