She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. So she turned her phone face down instead. No timestamps. No “last seen.” No quiet reminders of how long it had been since she’d typed his name and then erased it again. The message sat open anyway. Hey. Too small. I’ve been thinking about you. Too much. She deleted both. Outside, the city moved in its usual blur—cars passing, people talking, life continuing in ways that didn’t wait for anyone to catch up. She picked up the phone again. Scrolled through old messages she should have deleted months ago. You make everything feel easier. Call me when you get home. I’m here. Her chest tightened. He wasn’t here anymore. Not like that. Not after the last conversation—the one where they both said less than they meant and more than they could take back. She switched to the blank message again. I’m sorry. She stared at it. Watched the cursor blink, patient and expectant. If she sent it, something would change. Maybe not everything. Maybe not enough. But something. If she didn’t, nothing would. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Then, before she could overthink it again, she pressed send. The message went through instantly. No delay. No warning. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the typing bubble appeared. She exhaled, slow and shaky, like she’d been holding it for weeks. Whatever came next—good, bad, unfinished—it would at least be real. She set the phone down, no longer needing to hide it. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.