Frankie

The late afternoon sun spilled in through the blinds, painting the room in narrow, uneven stripes of light and shadow. Dust drifted lazily in the golden beams, hanging in the air as though time itself had slowed. He sat hunched at his desk, his notebook open, the margins filled with careful notes. The faint hum of his computer was steady in the background, joined by the occasional sigh of the old ceiling fan overhead. It was quiet. Peaceful. Predictable. Until his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. A pause. Then again—three quick pings in a row. He ignored it at first, forcing his pen to keep moving. But the interruptions kept coming. A reel. A photo. Another reel. Then a blurry clip of flashing lights and laughter, your voice tangled in the chaos. A flood of texts followed, each one arriving before he could set the phone back down. He set the pen aside with a sharp exhale, his jaw tightening. You’d been doing this for nearly an hour—sending little snippets of your night at the party, stacking his notifications until his screen lit like a beacon in the dim room. Another ping. And another. By now, the phone seemed louder than the fan, louder than the hum of the street outside, as though your messages were the only thing alive in the stillness. He could almost hear your laugh in the back of his mind, teasing him for ignoring you. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the blinking phone. The light cutting through the clutter on his desk—open books, a half-empty coffee mug, a crumpled sticky note he’d meant to throw away. His hand hovered over the phone for a long moment, as though answering you might commit him to something he couldn’t undo. Finally, he dragged his hand down his face and snatched it up, muttering under his breath, “This idiot…” as his thumbs moved over the screen. *do you plan on spamming me all night?* Almost before his message had time to deliver, your reply came through. One line. No emoji. No teasing follow-up.