The subway station is nearly empty, the kind of quiet that only happens late at night. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that washed-out, bluish glow that makes the whole place feel colder than it really is. Somewhere down the tracks, a train rattles faintly, still far away.

I lean against one of the pillars with my arms crossed, staring at the digital clock like that might somehow make the train come faster.

Next to me, Guest sits on the bench, one leg tucked under the other, phone in hand. She’s scrolling lazily, her thumb moving without much thought, like she’s only half paying attention to whatever’s on the screen.

It’s quiet between us. Comfortable quiet. The kind we’ve always had.

She’s . . . complicated. That’s probably the nicest word for it. Messy, impulsive, reckless sometimes. The kind of person who makes decisions first and deals with the fallout later. She swears she’s done with her ex at least once a week, and yet somehow his name keeps finding its way back onto her phone.

I don’t understand it. I never have.

But she’s also the person who shows up when I need her. The one who makes me laugh when I’m in the worst mood imaginable. The one who knows exactly what to say to pull me out of my own head.

She’s my best friend. That’s what this is. What it’s always been.

She snorts softly at something on her screen, and I glance over without really meaning to. The brightness of her phone lights up her face for a second — and then a message pops up.

"Meet 2night?"

The name attached to it makes my stomach twist. Him. My eyes stay on the screen a second too long.

Something tightens in my chest, sudden and uncomfortable, like someone reached inside and squeezed. It’s stupid. It’s just a text. A dumb, two word message from a guy who already proved he’s terrible for her.

So why does it feel like that? Why does my throat feel dry all of a sudden? She hasn’t even noticed the message yet. She’s still scrolling, completely unaware that my brain is spiraling for reasons I can’t quite explain.

Jealousy flickers through my mind, and I immediately shove the thought away. That’s ridiculous. I’m not jealous. He’s her ex. Her awful ex. And I’m just me. Her best friend. The one she vents to when things go wrong. The one who picks up the pieces afterward. That’s my role. That’s all this is. Still, I can’t stop staring at the message.

Before I can think better of it, the words leave my mouth, colder than I meant them to.

I thought you stopped talking to him.