Chapter Two – His Texts Feel Too Close
1112 Words
The glow of my phone is the only light in the room. The apartment is drowned in shadows, thick and unmoving, the kind that make you feel both safe and exposed. My eyes ache, my head throbs, but my chest is restless, alive in a way that feels dangerous.
Ian’s last message still glows on the screen: You’re not alone, Reese. Not tonight.
The words sink into me like a hand pressing down on my chest. I should laugh it off, treat it as casual reassurance, but it doesn’t feel casual. It feels like he knows too much, like he’s speaking straight into the hollow space Eli left behind. I tell myself not to overthink, but my fingers keep tracing the letters anyway, as if memorizing them might stop me from unraveling.
The phone buzzes again. Ian: Tell me what’s keeping you up.
I swallow hard. He’s not really asking about insomnia. He’s asking about the ache, about the silence, about the waiting that never ends. About Eli’s absence that gnaws like an open wound.
I should ignore him. I should bury my phone under a pillow and force my eyes closed. Instead, I type: Just one of those nights.
His reply comes quick. The kind where the walls feel too close?
My lips part. How does he know that?
Me: Exactly that.
A pause, then: Then open a window. Let the night in. It helps.
I laugh softly, the sound brittle in the quiet. He says it like it’s that simple. Like the sting of cold air could chase away months of loneliness.
Me: Too cold. Too late.
Excuses. Bet you didn’t even try.
My brows draw together. He’s right—I didn’t. I push back the blanket, cross the room, and unlatch the window. Night air slices in sharp, biting my skin. It shocks me awake, pulling goosebumps across my arms, but it also loosens something inside me.
Me: Fine. You win.
Always do.
The smugness should annoy me. Instead, I catch myself smiling at the screen, something I haven’t done in weeks. The smile feels dangerous, like a step too far, but I can’t stop.
The conversation tumbles forward, quick and steady. My cooking disasters. His obsession with framing the world through his camera. My playlists, his late-night writing. It’s all small talk, but every word feels loaded, like stepping onto a bridge I’m not supposed to cross.
Me: Nearly burned a pan tonight.
Ian: Knew it. You’d starve without coffee and takeout.
Me: Not true.
Prove it. Cook for me sometime.
My breath hitches. Cook for him. I picture him in my kitchen—leaning against the counter, teasing me when I spill flour, smiling that quiet, steady smile when I finally laugh. The image is too vivid, too close, and it scares me.
Me: You’d regret it.
Doubt it.
The dots appear, vanish, reappear. I know he’s weighing what to say, and the silence hums louder with every second. Finally: You’re easier to talk to than most people. You know that?
My heart tightens. Eli used to shower me with compliments, but lately his words come cold, recycled. From Ian, one simple line feels like heat spreading through my chest.
Me: Maybe I just listen more than most people.
No. It’s not just that.
The pause afterward hums like a living thing. I press the phone to my chest, my heartbeat too fast, too loud. I should stop. But instead, I ask: So what keeps you up at night?
His reply takes longer, and the waiting makes me restless. When it comes, it’s sharper than I expect. Too many words. Too many things I want to say but shouldn’t. Sometimes it’s easier to share them than carry them alone.
The message shakes me. He isn’t just talking about sleepless nights—he’s talking about everything sitting between us, unspoken and undeniable.
Me: So share them. With me.
The dots pulse. Stop. Start again. Finally: You’re not as alone as you think.
The words slice deep. My lungs ache as if the room’s air has thinned.
The phone buzzes again. A different name. Eli.
I freeze, chest tightening. His name feels strange now, like running into an old friend whose voice you barely remember.
Eli: Sorry. Fell asleep. Long day again.
That’s it. Just seven words. No warmth. No need. Just tired excuses tossed like crumbs at my feet.
I stare at the message until my vision blurs. Once, those words would have broken me. Now they barely make a dent, and that scares me more than anything. I want to scream at him, tell him I’m drowning here, but I don’t. I type nothing.
Another buzz. Ian. What are you thinking about right now?
The bitter laugh leaves me before I can stop it. How do I explain I’m holding Eli’s silence in one hand and Ian’s fire in the other, and I don’t know which burns worse?
Me: Nothing important.
Liar. I can always tell when you’re hiding something.
Always tell. My skin prickles. He makes me feel exposed, seen in ways I didn’t ask for.
Me: You don’t know everything about me.
Maybe not. But I notice the things you don’t think anyone else sees. Like how you stop breathing for a second when you get a message you don’t like.
I freeze. My eyes dart to the window, absurdly certain he’s outside watching. He isn’t. But he knows me anyway.
Before I can type back, the phone buzzes again. Nate.
Nate: You should be asleep. You’ve got that look in your eyes when you don’t rest.
My stomach twists. He doesn’t even have to be here to see me. That’s the thing about Nate—he watches me too closely, memorizes every version of me, even the ones I want hidden.
Another message follows fast.
Nate: Who are you talking to?
My breath catches. How does he always know?
I don’t reply. I can’t.
Ian again. Don’t let him distract you. Stay here with me.
My pulse stutters. Does he know about Nate’s message? Or is this just Ian being Ian—confident, relentless, claiming space no matter what?
Me: Okay. I’m here.
The dots flicker. Good. That’s all I wanted.
I stare at the words, my chest aching with something I don’t want to name. The silence of the apartment doesn’t feel hollow anymore. It hums. It vibrates. It feels alive.
My eyelids grow heavy, but I don’t want to let go. The last thing I see before sleep drags me under is his final message glowing faint against the screen.
Stay with me a little longer.
And I realize I already am.
- Writer
