Delivered

I sent "I miss you" at 2:07 AM. It's been delivered for forty-one days.

Her name was Maya. We were best friends for six years before we were anything else. Then we were everything for eight months, and then we were nothing.

I was the one who ruined it. I'm not going to pretend otherwise. She told me she was scared of losing me as a friend, and I said, "That'll never happen." Classic.

I got distant. Started going out more. Told myself I just needed to "figure myself out." She asked me once, quietly, in my car, "Do you even want this?"

I said I didn't know.

That was it. She nodded, got out, and walked home in the rain. I didn't chase her. I just sat there with the heater on, like an idiot.

Now we're strangers who know each other's coffee orders. Our mutual friends are being weirdly careful, like I'm contagious.

I saw her story last week. Her at a rooftop with people I don't know. She looked happy. Annoyingly, beautifully happy.

So tonight I typed it. "I miss you." Hit send. Watched the little word appear under it.

Delivered.

Not Read. Not Seen. Just Delivered.

And I realized something. She's not ignoring me.

She muted my number a month ago.

The message went through. I just didn't.