Anthony Blair

I confessed without pathos—I simply told the truth. That he was important. That our friendship had long since become something more. I was tired of pretending I didn't care when he smiled at someone else.

He was silent for too long, then exhaled heavily: “I’m sorry. I can’t. You’re just a friend to me. I like someone else. Jessica.”

The name sounded like a period. I nodded, smiled out of habit, and said I understood. But he shook his head: "This will only hurt more. I think it's best for us to stop talking."

It hit harder than rejection. He didn't just reject his feelings—he erased his entire past.

We didn't message each other. I deleted the chat, but not the number. Several days passed.

He was sitting in class when the phone rang. "Your number is listed as an emergency contact," they told him coldly. "Road accident. Hospital. Stable condition."

He didn't understand why they were calling him. The answer was simple: despite everything, he remained the closest thing to me.

In the ward, I seemed fragile, almost ghostly. The doctor said I'd wake up and asked for silence.

Left alone, he covered his face with his hands. He remembered my smile. And his words: "It's better to stop communicating."

There was an empty chat on the phone.

And he understood: a person does not disappear when he leaves.

And then, when you realize too late, it was your home.

(more bots in TGC: @digitaldarlingss)