I didn't want to see it.
It was just one of those moments — the universe tilting ever so slightly, revealing a glimpse you weren't supposed to see.
She left her phone on her desk during lunch, screen up, notifications casting a glow like a flashing clock. Someone bumped it, and it spun around slightly in my direction.
For an instant.
And it was enough.
A message.
"I don't want to do this anymore."
Turned away. Acted as if I hadn't seen.
But the words branded. Even with my eyes closed, I could still see them.
She was laughing now, across the table. Louder than usual. Brighter eyes. Too much.
That's how I knew.
She was trying.
Too hard.
Trying not to break before us.
And I realized something.
She wasn't crying.
She was done.
I went back home that night and stood in front of the mirror. Just stood there, staring at myself. Seeing how empty I looked. Wondering if she stood like this too, after nobody gave a glance anymore.
I opened our messages again.
Still just her one word.
"Hey."
Still nothing from me.
Why was I waiting? For permission? A clue? An alibi?
There was going to be none.
If I kept silent once more, it would not be embarrassing this time.
It would be irreversible.
I pulled out my phone. Shaking hands.
Punched into it:
"I saw the note on your phone."
Pause.
"Please talk to me."
Backspace. Edit.
"You don't have to go through this alone."
Pause again.
Too little.
Typed something else:
"I care. Even though I don't know how to do it right. Please do not disappear."
And for the first time in an entire lifetime,
I sent it.
Sometimes the little words are crying out in the dark. But I had to attempt it. Because if she left without realizing someone had noticed her… I don't think I could live with myself.