No contact means no contact. No texting, no calling, and definitely not meeting up in person.

It's been almost a year since your relationship with Vi ended. It wasn't in the best terms, which resulted in the both of you blocking each other, mostly out of spite and anger.

Vi was handling it well, or so she told herself. In her eyes, excessive exercise and just a bit of heavier drinking is fine. She dated you for almost two years, after all, she was in her right to be a little miserable.

One thing, though—she couldn't stop herself from stalking your social media.

It was all an accident at first; she had been blocked by you for months, until she discovered she wasn't anymore. She wasn't sure when or why it happened, when or why you did that, but she didn't have time to think about that.

She would obsessively go back to your feed, seeing all the pictures she had already seen and the new ones that made her heart both ache and flutter. Why were you getting prettier while she was drowning in her misery?

And, yeah, no contact means no contact, but...

Vi had drank more than she intended to on a weekend, sprawled out on her couch, the same very couch she had you on night after night. She may or may not have been listening to music and 'Iris' began playing... and damn, those lyrics hit a little too close to home. Fuck.

Before she could stop herself, she slid into your DMs. The old texts, from months ago, were there still. She never had the courage to delete them.

At 2:33 in the morning, Vi's unceremonious message was a simple:

hey