Chapter 1 — The Misplaced Message

Isla

It’s well past midnight when my phone buzzes, the pale glow slicing through the shadows of my cluttered room. I grope for it on the nightstand, knocking over a half-empty mug and my worn leather notebook in the process. My room smells faintly of coffee and ink, a comforting mix I’ve grown used to. My first thought is that it’s Lila, sending one of her meme-laden texts or reminding me about tomorrow’s coffeehouse shift. But the number on the screen is unfamiliar.

*I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s been months, and yet… you’re still everywhere. I miss you.*

The words swim before my sleep-heavy eyes, and I blink, trying to focus. My first instinct is to delete it and move on—some poor soul has clearly sent this to the wrong person. But my thumb hovers. There’s something raw in the message, a kind of unfiltered ache that feels too personal, too real, to belong in the anonymous void of a stranger’s inbox.

My gaze flickers to the notebook on the floor, its cracked leather cover catching the faint glow of the streetlights outside. The notebook, filled with my half-finished stories and private musings, is a place where I can be honest in a way I never manage with people. This text—it feels like someone else’s version of that honesty, spilled out into the world by accident.

I hesitate, the warmth of the phone in my hand grounding me. Connecting with people isn’t exactly my forte. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of keeping others at arm’s length, a defense mechanism honed by heartbreak and the fear of exposing too much. But something about this—the vulnerability of it—pulls me in.

Before I can overthink it, I type a cautious reply.

*I think you might have the wrong number, but… are you okay?*

The response comes faster than I expect, the vibration startling in the quiet.

*Oh, God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.*

I could leave it there. A simple exchange, forgotten by morning. But my thumb hovers again, and before I can stop myself, I type another message.

*You didn’t. I just… you sounded like you needed someone to talk to.*

A pause. My heart beats louder in the stillness of the room. Could this be some elaborate scam? But then, another message appears.

*Thank you. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that. I don’t even know why I sent it. Habit, I guess. Or maybe I just wanted to feel less alone.*

The honesty in their words tugs at something deep inside me. It’s the kind of thing I’d never admit aloud, even to myself. My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

*Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you don’t know,* I type back.

*You’re not wrong.*

I sit up, the blanket pooling at my waist as my chestnut hair tumbles from its loose bun. Outside, the city is quiet, a muted hum of life held at bay by the late hour. The glow of the streetlights filters through the curtains, casting faint patterns on the walls. My phone’s screen glows in the dim light, and I feel a pull I can’t quite explain.

*Do you want to talk about it?* I send, the words feeling bolder than I am.

The three little dots appear, then vanish, then reappear again. Finally, the reply comes.

*It’s complicated. I don’t even know where to start.*

I chew my lower lip. This is the moment where I should probably bow out gracefully, wish this stranger well, and leave them to their midnight musings. But the vulnerability in their words feels like a thread I can’t help but follow.

*Start wherever you want. Or don’t. No pressure.*

Another pause. Then:

*I thought I’d moved on. But tonight, it hit me all over again. She’s gone, and I don’t even know if I want her back… or if I just want closure. Does that make sense?*

The words hit me like a gust of cold air, stirring up emotions I’ve worked hard to bury. Of course it makes sense. Too much sense.

*It does,* I reply. *Sometimes it’s not about wanting the person back. It’s about wanting to understand why they left.*

For a moment, there’s no response. I wonder if I’ve said too much, if my own wounds are showing through the fractures in my carefully typed words. But then, the reply comes, soft and resonant.

*Yeah. That’s exactly it.*

I glance at the clock. It’s 1:13 a.m., and the rational part of me knows I should sleep. Tomorrow’s coffeehouse shift isn’t going to run itself. But instead of setting the phone down, I find myself typing again.

*Do you think you’ll ever ask her? For closure, I mean.*

The dots linger this time, longer than before.

*I don’t know. I want to, but… what if I don’t like the answer? What if it’s something I can’t fix?*

The vulnerability in their words makes my chest tighten. I know that fear—the fear that the truth might shatter the fragile pieces you’ve managed to hold together.

*Maybe it’s not about fixing it,* I send after a moment. *Maybe it’s just about letting yourself feel it, even if it hurts.*

The reply is almost immediate.

*You sound like you’ve been through this before.*

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. My instinct is to deflect, to make a joke or steer the conversation away from the raw truths I keep locked away. But there’s something about this exchange—this anonymous honesty—that feels safer than it should.

*Let’s just say I’ve had my share of heartbreak,* I type, then quickly add, *but who hasn’t, right?*

The three dots appear, and I wait, my heart thudding in the quiet.

*I guess that makes us both members of the heartbreak club.*

For the first time tonight, I smile.

*Do we get jackets? Or at least a secret handshake?*

The reply comes with a trace of humor, a lightness that shifts the weight of the conversation.

*Only if the jackets are oversized and incredibly cozy.*

*Deal. But mine has to have pockets. Lots of them.*

*Done.*

The levity lingers for a moment before the tone shifts again.

*I should probably let you sleep,* the stranger sends, as if reading my thoughts.

*Probably,* I reply, but my phone stays in my hand.

*Thank you for replying,* they add. *I didn’t realize how much I needed this tonight.*

*Me neither,* I admit before I can second-guess myself.

As I finally set the phone on my nightstand and pull the blanket up to my chin, I feel a strange warmth blooming in my chest. I tell myself it’s nothing—a fleeting moment of connection with someone I’ll probably never hear from again. But my thumb lingers over the screen, and without thinking, I save the number under “Unknown Stranger.”

The city hums faintly outside my window, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the leather notebook now resting on the nightstand. Sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, but the words linger in my mind, soft and insistent, like the first notes of a melody I can’t quite place.