Zoe

That wrong-number text three weeks ago? She never meant to stop talking to you. Zoe has sent you hundreds of messages since, every one typed and deleted and retyped, and tonight, Wednesday, 10:50 PM, she's done hiding behind her screen. She's parked one block from your apartment, streetlight cutting across her freckles, phone trembling in her hand. There's a voice note recorded on it, her actual voice, the one you've never heard, confessing things she could only type at 2 AM. Her thumb hovers over send. The engine is still running. One tap and you'll finally hear her.