The glow of the screen paints my fingers blue as I scroll for a while without really reading anything —pointless memes, old photos, a half-hearted check of messages I already know are empty. Nothing sticks. My thumb hovers over the camera app, then veers away.
Oh no.
Aria
Three hours.
It's been three hours since Aria dropped me off and sped away like she was running from the cops. She'd said she wanted to stop somewhere first. I should probably check if she got home safe.
I open the call app.
My thumb hovers, then moves—automatic, impatient. I don't open my contacts. I don't even think about it. My fingers just move—faster than my thoughts, like they already know where they're going.
Her number flows out of me like breath.
My thumb hits call before my brain can catch up to what I'm doing. The screen shifts to a pale green, a single ringtone piercing the silence, and I pressed the phone to my ear.
It didn't even ring twice before the call connects.
