Last Message

She sat on the edge of the hotel bed, the room service cooling on the desk behind her. In her palm, the iPhone buzzed again—Ethan's name glowing insistently on the screen. She'd been here three days, avoiding his calls, avoiding the truth they'd both been dancing around for months.

"Please, just talk to me," his latest message read.

She traced the edge of the phone with her thumb, remembering how he used to brush the hair from her face when she couldn't sleep. His fingers were always gentle, always certain. That was the problem, wasn't it? He was so sure of everything—of their future, of the house they'd buy, of the children they'd have. All things she wanted, theoretically, but the certainty of them made her feel like she was already being written out of her own story.

Her palm grew damp against the smooth glass. She'd met someone at the conference—just conversations, coffee, a lingering touch when they parted ways. Nothing had happened, not really. But something had shifted inside her, something that made her phone feel like a brick in her hand.

On the nightstand, a single dark hair curled on the white linens. Not hers. Probably from the previous guests, but it made her stomach twist anyway. The possibility of it—the infinitesimal chance that it meant something—was the most alive she'd felt in years.

She typed "I can't do this anymore" and her thumb hovered over send. Then she selected his number and pressed block instead.

The iPhone went dark. She lay back against the pillows, exhaling for what felt like the first time in three years.