The message had already been sent,
"Are you using me to kill your boredom? Will you leave me when you're done?"
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the low hum of my ceiling fan, the faint glow of my phone screen, and my heart racing faster than my thoughts could catch up.
Then, the typing dots appeared.
Those tiny, cruel dots that make you want to throw your phone and hug it at the same time.
"No, why would I even do that?"
His words came quickly, defensive, confused.
"I would never use you, trust me. And who said you this?"
I exhaled sharply, my fingers trembling.
"Uh… no one. It was just my assumption."
He replied instantly.
"Assumption? Kriti, seriously? That I'd use you? Do I look like that kind of person to you?"
I typed fast, scared, fragile.
"No, it's not that. I just… people get bored, okay? One day they talk to you nonstop, the next day it's like you don't exist."
A pause. Long enough to make me regret everything.
"You think I'm like that?"
I stared at the message. My chest felt heavy.
"I don't want to think that," I whispered to myself, then typed, "but sometimes my heart just doesn't trust easily. I've seen people change."
"Then don't compare me to everyone else," he shot back. "I'm not them."
The sharpness in his tone stung.
And before I could overthink, the question slipped out — the one sitting on my tongue for too long.
"Then tell me… who am I to you?"
The typing dots blinked.
Stopped.
Started again.
And then came the words that sliced clean through me.
"You're… a friend."
For a second, everything inside me went quiet.
A friend?
That's it?
I forced my fingers to move.
"Do you talk to a friend all day and night? Share things you don't tell others? Tease them, care about them, make them feel like they're… something?"
"Girl," he replied, "I don't know what you're assuming, but I just think of you as a good friend. You know I have a crush on someone. Then why are you thinking this way? Can't I just talk to you?"
The words hit like a slap wrapped in silk — polite but painful.
"Right," I muttered, blinking hard. "Just a friend."
"Yeah… just a friend," I typed. "Got it."
"Don't take it the wrong way, okay?"
I wanted to scream.
How do you not take heartbreak the wrong way when it's hitting you so perfectly right?
My heart felt like glass — sharp, see-through, and ready to shatter.
I wanted to end the conversation before my tears betrayed me.
So I texted,
"I'm just tired. I'll talk later."
But he didn't let me go.
"No," he replied. "Let's clear up this mess first."
I froze. My fingers hovered over the screen.
Part of me wanted to switch off the phone, hide under the blanket, and pretend this never happened. But another part — the stubborn one that still believed there was something between us — needed to know.
"There's nothing to clear up," I typed, forcing calm. "You said what you felt."
"But you're taking it differently," he replied. "You're overthinking."
"Overthinking?" I wanted to laugh. "I'm feeling too much."
The silence between our messages was unbearable now, like we were both waiting for the other to confess something neither of us could.
He finally sent
"Look, you're special, okay? I like talking to you. But I don't want you to misunderstand it."
And that was it.
That single line broke me more than anything else could've.
Because he said something special, but meant not enough.
I stared at the chat until the words blurred, my reflection trembling on the screen.
"Yeah," I whispered to myself, "I misunderstood. I always do."
And even though the conversation stayed open,
I finally learned how it feels when someone clears up the mess,
but leaves you standing in the ruins.