Maya stared at her phone for a long time. The message was still there, glowing back at her from the unknown number.
"Does he know you used to beg me to stay even when I was fucking everything up?
Does he know what you sound like when you cry my name?"
Her fingers hovered over the screen. Not to respond—God no. Just to stare. Like her thumb alone could erase the nausea curling in her gut.
She'd blocked Eddie. Everywhere. Instagram. Snapchat. His fake alt account with the "Just studying abroad lol" bio. His number. Everything.
And still, he found a way to crawl back in. Like mold in the corners. Like the smell of smoke in clothes you already washed.
"Girl," Sally said, glancing at her from the edge of the bed. "You've been staring at that phone for ten minutes. Either he said something disgusting or your Amazon package got lost."
Maya didn't answer right away. She just slowly turned the screen toward her.
Sally read it. Blinked. Then her whole face twisted. "Oh, hell no. Hell no. I'm gonna stab this man with a pen."
Luna, on the floor painting her toenails, looked up. "What? What happened?"
Maya tossed the phone beside her. It bounced once on the comforter.
"Eddie," she muttered. "He messaged me from a new number."
Luna sighed. "You blocked him already. How's he still haunting you like some ex-boyfriend poltergeist?"
Maya pressed her palm to her forehead. "I don't know. I don't even know why I'm letting it get to me. It's pathetic."
"No," Sally said firmly. "What's pathetic is him still trying to mess with your head after everything. After Sammy. After Crostwood. After—everything."
Maya just nodded, but her chest felt hollow. And cold. And tight.
And deep down, in the part of herself she hated the most, she could still hear his voice.
The next morning at school, Maya tried to act normal. She smiled when someone complimented her outfit. She laughed when Luna made fun of that one history teacher with the coffee breath.
But it was fake.
Like her lip gloss. Like her laugh.
The real Maya was still in bed, staring at that message, wondering why her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
They were heading to the parking lot after the final bell when it happened.
A familiar voice broke through the buzz of students and the hum of engines.
"Hey," Damon said, walking toward them.
He was wearing that fitted button-up that made him look like a magazine cover. No tie, just sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked tired. But good. Too good.
Maya blinked. "You're back?"
"Yeah," he said, stopping in front of her with a soft smile. "Trip got cut short. Didn't want to be away too long."
Sally threw Maya a look that screamed don't blow this.
Luna cleared her throat and muttered, "I'm just saying, tall handsome and CEO over here didn't fly across time zones for nothing."
Maya hesitated. For a second. Then longer.
And then she said it.
"Wanna go out with me tonight? Like… dinner?"
Damon's eyebrows lifted. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd really like that."
She picked the place. A fancy rooftop restaurant downtown that overlooked the city skyline. Dim lights. Live music. Candle on every table.
Maya dressed like a goddess. Backless dress. Lashes like wings. Perfume expensive enough to burn a hole in your wallet.
When Damon saw her, he was speechless for a second. He pulled out her chair like a gentleman and kept looking at her like she'd invented fire.
"You look…" he exhaled, "insane. In a good way."
Maya smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
The view was beautiful. The food was overpriced. The wine sparkled.
Damon talked. He told her about the trip, the disaster at the Thomy office, the awkward team dinners, and how he still couldn't stop thinking about her the whole time.
Maya tried to laugh at the right parts. She tried to flirt. She even reached out and touched his hand once, lightly.
But she wasn't there. Not all the way.
He noticed.
"You okay?" he asked after a while.
She blinked at her fork. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Maya," he said gently, "you've cut your salmon three times and haven't taken a single bite."
She looked up. Forced a weak smile. "Sorry. I'm just not that hungry."
He tilted his head. Concern creeping in. "Are you upset about something?"
Her lips pressed together. Then—softly, carefully—she said, "I got a message. Last night. From an unknown number."
Damon didn't even have to ask. "Eddie."
She nodded.
"What'd he say?"
She shook her head. "Doesn't matter."
"Maya—"
"It doesn't. I'm here with you now."
That hit weird. Even as she said it, it felt like a script. Like she was trying to convince herself just as much as him.
Damon leaned forward, lowered his voice. "Listen, if you weren't ready—"
"I wanted to go out with you," she said.
He looked at her for a long time. Then nodded. "Okay."
But it was heavy now.
Later in the night, he reached across the table. Just a simple touch—fingertips against hers. Nothing pushy. Nothing intense.
And she flinched.
Not dramatically. Not loud. But enough. Enough for him to notice.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He pulled his hand back. Let the space return.
"Maya," he said, voice rougher now, "you don't have to do this. Not for me. Not to prove anything to yourself."
She looked at him. For the first time that night, really looked. And saw the flicker of something fragile in his eyes.
"I'm trying," she said.
He gave a bitter little smile. "I know. But I'm not a placeholder, okay? I'm not just the guy you post pictures with to make someone else jealous."
She froze.
He said it.
He knew.
And it stung.
Still, before they left, she asked him to take a photo.
Just one. Just for her Instagram.
He smiled in it. But inside, something in him was already shutting down.
That night, back in his apartment, Damon sat on the couch in silence.
He stared at the photo. Zoomed in.
Her smile didn't match her eyes.
She looked beautiful. But also far away. Like someone who had packed up emotionally and left days ago.
And he knew. Deep down, he knew.
This wasn't about him.
He was a move on the chessboard. A reaction.
And Eddie—he was still the ghost she couldn't stop chasing.
Damon dropped the phone on the coffee table, leaned back on the couch, and closed his eyes.
God, he felt stupid.
He actually liked her.
And she liked the way he looked in her story.
He rubbed a hand down his face and muttered, "Never again."