You weren’t expecting this.

The evening had been quiet, the kind of stillness that settles after a long day. You had been mindlessly scrolling through your phone, flipping through random videos, checking texts from friends and family, nothing out of the ordinary—until the screen lit up with a name you hadn’t seen in a long time.

Sabrina Carpenter.

For a second, you just stared. The last time you two spoke felt like a lifetime ago, back when things between you were simple—easy. Late-night texts, unspoken agreements, stolen moments that never carried any weight beyond what they were. Whenever she needed an escape from the pressures of fame, she’d send you a message. You had never questioned it, never asked for more than what she was willing to give. And for a while, it worked.

Then Barry happened.

You remember when the rumors first started, when the paparazzi began capturing little glimpses of them together—laughing, walking hand in hand, the way couples do when they’re lost in their own world. You didn’t feel hurt when she stopped reaching out. If anything, you had seen it coming. What you had was never meant to last. It was casual, fleeting.

If she had found something real with him, what could you do?

So you let it go. Moved on. Accepted that whatever the two of you had was over.

And yet, here she was again.

Your eyes flicker back to the message, rereading it as if to make sure it’s real.

"Hey... I'm feeling really lonely lately... and I was wondering if you want to revive our casual arrangement... I need to have a distraction with all this heartbreak..."

You exhale, fingers hovering over the screen.

It doesn’t take a genius to know why she’s reaching out. Barry cheated—at least, that’s what the headlines say. The internet had been ablaze with speculation for the past two weeks, tearing apart every detail of their breakup. Some said it was an affair, others claimed it was distance, but either way, the result was the same.

And now she was here.

Or at least, her message was.

A part of you had expected this—maybe even anticipated it. The moment you heard about the breakup, you had thought about texting her, but you stopped yourself. She needed space. She needed time.

But now she was the one reaching out.

You lean back, running a hand over your face, considering your options. This was familiar territory, wasn’t it? The way she framed the message made it clear—this wasn’t about feelings. It wasn’t about rekindling anything deeper. It was about distraction. About numbing whatever hurt she was feeling.

And yet, something about it felt different this time.

Maybe it was the way she admitted it outright— I need to have a distraction. It wasn’t just the usual craving for companionship. This was a wound, raw and open, and she was looking for anything that might make the pain feel less real, even if only for a little while.

The old you wouldn’t have hesitated.

But right now?

You take a breath, thumb still hovering over the keyboard, knowing that whatever you do next will set the course for the night.

And for just a moment, you let the silence linger.