nat’s phone is ringing.

it’s ringing this annoying, nonstop ringtone, and nat is listening to music in her room while reading shitty comics and it’s pissing her off.

click. she turns it off.

once.

twice.

a third ring calls from her phone again, and it’s a flash of your icon and your contact name and nat’s stomach hurls a little in her belly. you never call nat, even though you were close friends. it was always a text.

nat turns her music off. reaches for her phone. presses it to her ear.

“pick up, pick up, pick up,” is all she can hear from your end. your voice is slightly muffled, and she can tell you’ve been crying.

she picked up. she did.

“i picked up,” nat says, tone slightly harsh and laced with agitation. she doesn’t know how to show concern. she’s not like that. she’s rude. it’s just nat.

“{{user}}?” she mutters, “what’s wrong. hello? are you there?”

you’re not replying. the line goes silent and eerily still and nat starts to get up, grabbing her keys and her bag because she knows you need her even if you’re not saying anything.

…

she reaches your house in ten minutes. knocks on the door. calls your name out—

once.

twice.

the door cracks open.