His reply came fast: Probably.
She stared at that one for so long the screen dimmed. Then she deleted that too, because she wasn’t that girl anymore. She was the girl who’d blocked him. Who’d watched his last six messages— Lena, please. Lena, I’m sorry. Lena, can we just talk? Lena, I love you. —sit there unread until she’d finally swiped and hit Block .
He looked up at her window again. The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared.
She looked at the message for a long time. Then she put the phone down, leaned her head on his shoulder, and for the first time in months, she didn’t think about blocking or unblocking or settings or screens.
She sent it. Then she threw the phone across the bed like it was on fire.