11:03

I accidentally FaceTimed her at 2 AM. She picked up.

I was half-asleep, scrolling my recents, thumb heavy, brain foggy. One wrong tap and her name lit up the screen. "Calling Mia…"

I froze. I should've hung up instantly. Instead, I watched the little ring animation like a deer in headlights. Ring. Ring. Ring.

She answered.

Her name was Mia. We'd broken up eight months ago, after two years of making each other laugh. And there she was, lit by her phone, hair messy, face bare, sitting in her bed.

Neither of us said anything.

I should've said sorry. "Wrong number." "Pocket dial." But I couldn't. I just looked at her. She looked at me.

She didn't ask why I called. She didn't tell me to go away. She tucked her knees up. Rested her chin on them. And watched me back.

The silence wasn't awkward. It was heavy and soft, like a blanket we'd both been missing.

I saw a tear slide down. She wiped it quickly. I pretended I didn't see. My own eyes were stinging.

Eleven minutes. We didn't speak for eleven minutes.

Then she mouthed, slowly, "Goodnight."

She ended the call.

I checked the log afterwards. Mia. Outgoing. 11:03.

I'd never been so close to someone without saying a word.

I think it was the longest conversation we ever had.