The Wrong Number

Chapter 3: Who's This?

AVA'S POV

The morning light didn't burst through the blinds; it seeped in, pale and gray, filtering through dust motes dancing in the stagnant air of the apartment.

It was a coward's sunrise.

Unwilling to commit to brightness.

Much like the man sleeping beside me.

I lay on my back for a long time, staring at the water stain on the ceiling.

Beside me, Mark's breathing was deep, rhythmic, and infuriatingly peaceful.

He was curled toward the window, his jaw slack, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed.

The phone that had been glued to his ear last night—the one he'd whispered into while I sat in the shower trying to scrub the feeling of being unwanted off my skin—sat silent on the nightstand.

I felt a cold, hard knot in my stomach.

Not regret.

Not yet.

Just a hollow ache where my soul used to be.

I pushed the sheets away.

They felt heavy, tainted.

When my feet hit the cold floor, the shock of it was the only thing that felt real.

I needed my phone.

I needed to hear Laura's voice.

I needed to tell someone that I felt like I was drowning.

I scanned the room.

My clutch sat on the dresser.

My red dress—the satin one that had made me feel like a queen for five minutes before I realized I was just a prop in Mark's fantasy—hung in the closet like an accusation.

I rushed to the dresser, digging through the bag.

No phone.

I checked the pockets of my jeans.

Nothing.

I checked the bowl by the door where we usually dropped our keys.

Empty.

Panic spiked, sharp and cold.

Then, memory hit me like a slap.

The restaurant.

I remembered the rage, hot and blinding, when Mark had laughed at the waitress who was practically sitting in his lap.

I remembered storming out, my hands shaking so badly I couldn't hold anything.

I remembered shoving my phone onto the table in a huff, leaving it there as I marched out into the night.

"f**k," I whispered, the word tasting like ash.

I walked into the kitchen, my mind racing.

I couldn't call the restaurant.

I couldn't call Laura.

I was trapped.

I started the kettle.

The sound of water boiling, the scrape of a spoon against a pot, the mundane rhythm of making oatmeal—it was the only thing keeping me from screaming.

I needed to tell someone how Mark had looked at that woman.

How he had told me I was being "sensitive" when I pointed out he was flirting.

How he had refused to even hold my hand on the drive home.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs.

Mark appeared in the doorway, wearing a white T-shirt and track pants, his hair damp from a shower he hadn't offered to let me join.

He looked fresh.

Rested.

Like he hadn't just destroyed our anniversary and violated my emotional boundaries by refusing to acknowledge my pain.

"Good morning, babe," he said, his voice easy, cheerful.

He walked over and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"It smells good in here.

What are you cooking?"

I stiffened, every muscle in my body screaming to push him away.

But I didn't.

I forced a smile, the kind that felt like it was cracking my face.

"Good morning to you too.

I'm making oatmeal."

He chuckled, oblivious to the ice in my veins.

"You're the best.

I'm starving."

He leaned against the counter, watching me with that half-smile that used to make my heart flutter.

Now it just made me sick.

I buttered toast with aggressive strokes, the knife scraping hard against the plate.

"I, uh, I left my phone at the restaurant last night," I said, my voice tight.

I couldn't look at him.

"When I... when I left the table.

I realized this morning it's gone."

Mark paused.

He took a sip of the coffee I had poured for him, his expression shifting to one of casual dismissal.

"Oh.

Yeah, if you left it there, you're probably not getting it back."

I turned to him, my eyes wide.

"What?

Mark, I have all my contacts.

My school stuff.

Everything."

He shrugged, waving a hand as if swatting away a fly.

"Those places?

People steal stuff like that, Ava.

You know how it is.

If they wanted to return it, they would have called.

It's probably gone."

"You know I have to use money for my books to buy another phone," I said, my voice rising, frustration boiling over.

"I'll probably just study with copies and slides now because I can't afford this."

He shrugged again, unconcerned, turning back to the counter to grab a piece of toast.

"Sucks.

But honestly?

Don't worry about it.

Get a cheap one.

It's not a big deal."

Not a big deal.

The words echoed in my head, just like "it's not a big deal" had echoed when he flirted with the waitress.

Just like "you're being sensitive" had echoed when I cried.

We ate breakfast in silence.

The oatmeal was bland, sticking to the roof of my mouth, but I forced it down.

Every clink of the spoon against the bowl sounded like a gunshot.

After we finished, Mark kissed me on the cheek—a perfunctory, empty gesture.

"I'm heading to my place to work.

See you later."

"Bye," I whispered.

When the door closed, the silence of the apartment crashed down on me.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Laura hadn't come back.

The coffee mug on the counter was clean, the spare room bed made.

Laura was still at Sam's.

The realization hit me like a physical blow: I was alone.

Truly, utterly alone.

I grabbed my purse and walked out, the cold air hitting my face like a slap.

I went to the nearest electronics store, a small, sterile place that smelled of plastic and desperation.

I picked a modest phone, something with enough battery life and a decent camera, but the price tag made my stomach turn.

I did the math in my head: this phone meant fewer textbooks, or maybe no new clothes for the rest of the semester.

I paid, got it activated, and held the new device in my hand like something both trivial and necessary.

Back at the apartment, the silence was deafening.

I set up the new phone, the process robotic.

Account names, app icons, the little rituals that make a device into a daily companion.

When prompted to add contacts, I typed what I thought was Laura's number from memory.

My hands were shaking.

I saved it under "Laura."

It seemed like a tiny, sensible thing—text your best friend when you get home, vent, maybe get a sympathetic ear.

Then I opened the messages thread, thumb hovering over the record button.

I pressed it.

And I let it all out.

I told Laura everything.

About the way Mark had laughed when the woman flirted with him, and how he had told me I was being "sensitive" and "jealous."

About the drive home, the silence, the way he had ignored my pain.

My voice shook as I described standing under the hot water, trying to wash away the feeling of being used.

I told Laura about the black lace lingerie, how I had put it on hoping for something different, hoping for intimacy, hoping for love.

I described how Mark had recoiled when I offered to try something new, calling it "demonic" and telling me I didn't need to "behave like a slut."

"He said good girls don't do those things," I whispered into the phone, tears streaming down my face.

"He said I was so sweet, and then he used me and fell asleep.

I lay there, feeling hollow, and I couldn't breathe."

I poured out my soul, the words tumbling out in a rush of pain and anger and despair.

When I finished, I sat in the small quiet, the new phone warm in my hand.

I felt both relief and dread.

Relief because the words had been said, and dread because I had sent them out into the world.

I hit send, imagining my best friend's steady, comforting reply, the swift, practical advice that always followed.

I waited.

Minutes passed.

The silence of the apartment was overwhelming.

Then, the phone buzzed.

My heart leaped.

Laura.

I opened the message.

"Who's this?"

I stared at the screen.

The words didn't make sense.

"Who's this?"

"What?" I whispered, confusion clouding my mind.

I checked the number I had sent the message to.

My blood ran cold.

I had typed the wrong number.

I had sent my most intimate, painful, vulnerable confession to a stranger.

"What the f**k," I whispered, the horror of it sinking in deeper than anything Mark had ever done to me.