Sleep became optional after that. I've tried to sleep for a few hours now, but sleep has refused to claim me.
I lay awake long after the house went quiet, listening to the slow tick of the clock in the hallway and the occasional groan of settling wood. Every sound felt amplified in the dark, as if the night itself was paying attention. My thoughts refused to settle, circling the same point over and over until my chest ached with it.
Davis.
The way he'd looked at me in the grocery store, resolute, conflicted, undeniably affected, had stripped away any last illusion I'd been clinging to. He hadn't denied it. Not really. He'd just named the cost.
I turned onto my side and stared at the glow of my phone on the nightstand.
Don't.
The word repeated in my head like a warning, but my hand reached for the device anyway. The screen lit up the room, harsh and intimate. I scrolled through my contacts, past names I barely remembered, until his appeared.
Davis Moore.
My thumb hovered. Not wanting to text but at the same time, my heart wants me to.
I told myself I'd just check the time. That I'd lock the phone again and try to sleep.
Instead, I opened the message thread.
The last message was from years ago a brief, polite congratulations when I'd graduated. I'd replied with a thank you and nothing else. It felt like another lifetime.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I typed:
Can't sleep.
I stared at the words, my heart pounding, then hit send.
The message whooshed away, irreversible.
I dropped the phone like it had burned me and rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. Regret rushed in fast and loud. What was I doing? He'd been clear. He'd drawn the line himself.
The phone buzzed less than a minute later.
Me neither.
My breath caught.
I picked up the phone again, fingers trembling slightly.
Sorry, I typed. I shouldn't have texted.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
You're allowed to exist, Fabian, he finally replied. Texting isn't a crime so don't be sorry for texting me.
I let out a shaky laugh, pressing my knuckles to my mouth.
Feels like it is.
That makes two of us.
The simplicity of the response settled something in my chest. We weren't pretending anymore. Not entirely.
I stared at the screen for a short while, then typed the truth before I could stop myself.
I keep thinking about what you said. About lines.
The reply came slower this time.
So do I.
Do you think they were always there? I asked.
There was a pause long enough for my anxiety to spike.
Yes, he wrote. We just didn't have to see them before.
I swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on me even through text.
And now?
Another pause.
Now they're harder to ignore no matter how hard I try, the more difficult it's becoming to ignore it.
I rolled onto my side, curling into myself, phone clutched to my chest.
I don't want to be a problem to anyone, I typed. For you. For my dad.
The dots appeared immediately this time.
You aren't a problem, he wrote. You're a person. A good one.
The warmth of that sank deep, dangerous and welcome all at once.
Then why does it feel like we're doing something wrong?
The answer took longer. Long enough that I wondered if I'd pushed too far.
Finally:
Because wanting doesn't disappear just because we say it should.
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.
I stared at the words until the screen dimmed, then tapped it awake again, as if they might vanish if I looked away too long.
I wish I could stop, I admitted.
I wish you could too, he replied.
The honesty of it stole my breath.
Across town, Davis sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, the room lit only by the pale glow of the screen. He'd been staring at the wall when Fabian's message came through, fighting the same war of restraint he'd been losing since the grocery store.
He'd told himself he wouldn't respond that he'd just ignore the message.
That he'd let the message sit there, unanswered, until the impulse passed.
Instead, he'd replied immediately.
Now, with each exchanged word, he felt the line he'd drawn thinning, eroding under the quiet intimacy of shared sleeplessness. Texting felt safer than seeing Fabian in person, safer than hearing the tremor in his voice or noticing the way his gaze lingered.
And yet, it was doing something worse.
It was letting them say the things they were too afraid to speak aloud.
Davis closed his eyes, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
He should end this. Now. Before it went any further.
You should try to sleep, he typed.
The response came quickly.
If you stop texting me, I will.
A soft, humorless laugh escaped him.
That's not fair, he wrote.
Neither is this.
He had no argument for that.
The conversation drifted, careful and unguarded all at once. They talked about trivial things at first—books they loved, shows they'd both watched years ago, music that still made them ache with nostalgia.
It felt… easy.
Too easy.
Do you ever regret staying here? I asked at one point. In this town.
There was a long pause before he answered.
Sometimes, he wrote. But I also know leaving wouldn't have fixed what I was running from.
What were you running from?
The three dots blinked on and off.
Myself.
The word hit me harder than I expected.
I think I'm doing the same thing, I typed.
Running or staying?
Both.
That earned a response almost immediately.
You're braver than you think.
I smiled at the screen, warmth spreading through my chest, I felt lighter.
You're wrong, I wrote. I'm terrified.
So am I.
The admission felt like a confession.
Time slipped past unnoticed. The clock on my phone read 2:37 a.m. when I finally glanced at it, startled.
We should stop, I typed reluctantly.
We should, he agreed.
Neither of us moved to end the conversation.
Goodnight, Fabian, he eventually wrote.
I stared at the words, my chest tight.
Goodnight, Davis.
The screen went dark.
I set the phone down and lay back, heart racing, thoughts spinning. The room felt warmer, closer, like it was holding a secret with me.
Late-night conversations had a way of stripping things down to their truth. Of making everything feel more honest, more inevitable.
As sleep finally crept in, one thought echoed louder than the rest.
If words alone could feel this intimate, this dangerous
What would happen when we ran out of them?