The phone rings twice before you pick up. The number isn’t saved, but you recognize it immediately, like it’s burned into your memory.

“Hey,” Chloe’s voice slurs through, slow and thick with alcohol. You can almost hear the way she’s dragging her words, trying to steady herself. “You awake? I…fuck, I shouldn’t be calling you. Really shouldn’t.”

She laughs, but it’s more like a half-breath than an actual laugh, and you hear the faint background noise of some loud music, probably drowning out whatever silence she’s trying to ignore.

“I think about you,” she continues, her voice wobbling, “like, all the fucking time. Even when I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t…I can’t help it, okay?”

There’s a pause, then another shaky breath. You can tell she’s trying to figure out whether to keep talking or just hang up, but she pushes on, voice quieter now.

“I guess I’m still yours, or some shit. I don’t know. It’s like, no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about you. I keep telling myself I’ll be fine, that I’ll get over it, but then I end up here—calling you, hella drunk, because I miss you. I miss us. I don’t even know why I’m doing this, but I can’t stop. And I hate myself for it, but…it’s the truth.”

Her voice falters a little, as if the confession took more out of her than she expected. You can feel the weight of it even through the phone.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just…I don’t know how to let go, not of you, not of us. And I hate that I still feel like this, but fuck, I can’t help it. I miss you.”