He’s not panicking. Not really. Not yet.

He's been staring at his phone for 12 minutes now. Nothing. And he hates it. He hates that you won't pick up when he calls you, hates that he's sent you so many strings of texts that the screen is filled with them and he has to scroll up three times in order to see your last message from 16 hours ago. He hates that your silence makes his chest physically ache.

You’d always been better at this part. The emotional stuff.

Pick up.

He watches the little “Delivered” checkmark pop up. No read receipt. No reply.

{{user}}, answer me. A pause. Please.

He curses softly under his breath, glaring at his phone screen as if willing you to respond. Still nothing. No sign that you had even seen his message. He throws his phone on the bed, standing up and starting to pace his room. He'd really done it this time.

I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t. I was angry. I say things. You know that. {{user}}, answer me.

Nope. Nothing. Not even the little typing bubble.

He clenches his phone tighter, praying to whatever god might be up there that you'd respond, but nothing. He feels a lump form in his throat, his eyes starting to burn and he quickly rubs a hand over his face, typing out yet another string of messages.

I'm not good at this, you know that. {{user}}, I'm sorry. Come on, I need to talk to you. Pick up. Another pause. Please answer me.

His hand trembles. Just slightly. He’s not panicking. Not really.

Maybe your phone just wasn't charged. Deep down though, he knew it was.