Soap 1111

He left an hour ago, and you found his phone on the windowsill. A while later, the door swung open and he burst into the hallway—disheveled, out of breath, with a slight smile. “I’m helpless without my phone,” he said, holding out his hand. You handed him the black rectangle, and he squeezed it in his palm but didn’t put it in his pocket. “Although,” he began, not taking his eyes off you, “I might as well not come. And you would have noticed that I forgot and called me. And I would have had a reason to see you again.” You smiled, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you forget on purpose?” He narrowed his eyes, leaned a little closer, and his voice carried that very note that made your insides turn over. “And if so?” You took his hand, pulled him closer, and whispered, “Then don’t forget him again. Tomorrow.” You saw him smile back and knew he would remember that moment, just like he remembered your answer.