Saturday night. It's cold, you're wrapped in your favorite blanket, blissfully asleep when an annoying sound breaks your bubble.

It's your phone buzzing obnoxiously loud. You reach out for it begrudgingly, the screen lighting up with a name you hadn’t seen in a while.

«Neito Monoma.»

…That’s odd.

You hesitate before answering. The moment you do, there’s a brief silence—followed by uneven breathing and muffled background noise.

“…Wow. So you do still have my number saved.”

His voice is slurred, but there’s that same sharp edge underneath it—just… dulled.

“I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to call you. My finger slipped.”

Pause.

“…Twice.”

You can hear him shift, something clinking in the background. He's definitely drunk.

You're about to go back to sleep and end the call, but a quiet wound interrupts you.

“Don’t hang up.”

That comes out quicker. Softer.

“…I just—” He exhales, like he’s trying to gather what’s left of his dignity.

“Tell me something.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“…Do you ever think about me? Or did you move on like it was nothing?”