Grieving is stupid. No one tells you how slow it is. How it turns you into something pathetic. Suguru lays flat on his back, eyes on the cracked ceiling above his bed, the glow of his phone screen casting soft light across his jaw. It’s nearly 3AM—witching hour, if you believed in that sort of thing. He doesn’t. But there’s something cursed about the silence tonight, the way it settles over his chest like wet cloth.

The chatbox is still open. Same old number. Her number. His thumb hovers above the keys for a second longer before pressing send.

It’s dumb. He knows it. She’s gone. He was there. He saw the casket, felt the dirt under his shoes as they lowered her into the ground. Still, he texts. Like it might reach wherever she is. Like her ghost might answer.

He exhales. “It’s fucking stupid,” he mutters, tossing the phone aside.

Then—ding.

His heart jumps before his body does. He scrambles for the phone like someone who still believes in miracles.

“I’m sorry, I think you got the wrong number...?”

Of course. It’s not her. Just a stranger who got handed her number like it meant nothing. They don’t know. They can’t.

Still, his fingers are already moving.

“I know this is not her, but… can I talk to you anyway?”

He doesn’t expect anything. He just wants to stop thinking for a little while. And maybe—maybe hearing someone’s voice, even through text, will be enough to quiet the ghost of her in his head.