Rafael doesn’t text from his number.
Of course he doesn’t.
Two days after the office confrontation, I get a message from an unknown contact on Mia’s phone while she’s in the shower.
The screen lights up on the nightstand beside my bed. I’m half‑asleep, or pretending to be, Tessellating the cracks in the ceiling into some pattern that makes more sense than my life.
The preview flashes:
> R: You alone?
I frown, pick up the phone. The contact name is some random string of letters, but the typing cadence is familiar.
Me: Depends who’s asking.
There’s a pause, then:
> R: The guy who used to smuggle you half a sandwich during twelve‑hour sessions
> R: You busy?
I glance at my own confiscated phone on the dresser, dark and useless.
Me: You know this isn’t my number.
> R
