Not even my shadow made it into the frame.
I put my phone away and walked down the overpass steps.
The wind had stopped. It felt like rain was coming.
I stood at the curb waiting for the bus. Fine threads of rain began to drift down, thin and cool against my skin.
My phone lit up again.
Not a call. A text.
Unknown number, but I knew who it was the second I saw it.
"Don't do this. Come home and we'll talk."
I stared at that word. Home.
The apartment we rented together. The curtains I'd picked out. The sheets I'd chosen. The dishes I'd bought. The pothos plant I'd kept alive on the windowsill. He called it home, but he spent half the month sleeping somewhere else.
I deleted the message.
Another one came through.
"She's really just like a little sister to me. I don't think of her that way."
Deleted.
"Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you? I didn't even finish my drink before I ran out. It's raining."
Deleted.
"Can you just say something? Anything?"
Then the last one.
"It's been ten years. You're really just going to walk away?"
I stared at that line. Rain dotted the screen, blurring the words.
Ten years.
Yeah. Ten years.