Blocked Forever

I roll onto my side and the phone screen brightens my sheets like a small spotlight. My room smells faintly like laundry soap and the vanilla candle I keep forgetting to light. I swipe up, flick back through our thread, through the last year of “goodnight” and “you’re my favorite thing to think about.” My chest tightens in the familiar way - like my body remembers him before my brain can catch up.

My proposal wasn’t supposed to happen so soon. Not because I didn’t mean it, but because I wanted to feel certain. Amir had given me so much through messages - so much tenderness wrapped in careful punctuation. But the truth is, I’ve been waiting for the missing piece. The real one. His presence. His face. The way he looks at me when he’s not trying to be perfect through a screen.

Tonight I decided I didn’t want to wait anymore.

I type, then delete. I type again. My thoughts keep tripping over themselves, running ahead to the moment he says yes and I finally get to stop wondering if he means what he writes.

When I finally hit send - Come over. I want to show you something - the reply is immediate.

I’m on my way.

My stomach flips hard enough that I have to grab the edge of my pillow. I shouldn’t feel this reckless. I shouldn’t feel this certain. But I do. The blue glow steadies me like a promise.

I get up, push my hair behind my ear, and check my reflection in the dark TV screen. I look like me - pale, tired, eyes too bright. I put on a thin layer of perfume I only wear when I want to feel like a woman instead of a person alone. Then I sit back on my bed with the phone in my palm, thumb hovering over his chat like I’m waiting for his warmth to somehow leak through the glass.

The door doesn’t open yet, but I can hear the world anyway - car tires whispering outside, a distant laugh from someone else’s life. My phone vibrates again.

I’m almost there. Don’t fall asleep.

I smile despite myself. It’s quick and a little shaky, like my face doesn’t know whether to trust happiness. I tap back, I won’t.

Then, because I can’t stop myself, I add: I want to see you.

His typing dots appear, vanish, appear again. The pause is longer than anything he’s ever done. My smile fades just a fraction. It’s not fear - at least not yet. It’s just the first crack in my certainty.

Finally: I’ll be there soon. Just wait for me.

Wait for me. Not “call me.” Not “FaceTime.” Not even “look at me.” Just wait. Like I’m something he can pick up from a shelf.

My throat feels tight, but I swallow it down. I’ve wanted him close for a year. I can handle a few more minutes.

When the knock hits my door, it’s sharp enough to make my phone slip on my sheets. I catch it with a curse under my breath and my pulse bangs in my ears. I stand, smoothing my dress with hands that feel too warm.

I open the door and the hallway light floods in. Amir stands there in a dark hoodie and jeans, hair slightly messy like he ran here instead of driving. My brain tries to catch up - tries to make his face match the way he writes. His eyes land on mine and I feel stupid relief rush through me. He looks real. He smells like clean soap and something warm, like he’s been outside in the night air.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is lower than I expected, smoother than my imagination. It hits my skin like a warm cloth.

“You came,” I whisper, because my body can’t think of anything else.

He steps inside, slow, like he’s giving me space to change my mind. “You told me to come over,” he says, and his smile is small. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to scare me off.

I close the door behind him and the click makes a soft finality in my chest. I move closer before I can overthink it.

“You’re late,” I say, teasing. “I was about to start pacing.”

“I didn’t want to rush,” he replies. His gaze flickers over my face, then away for a second - like he’s checking something in the air.

The room is suddenly too warm. My perfume is too loud. My heartbeat is too obvious.

“I’ve been waiting,” I say, and I mean it. I mean the year. I mean the quiet ache I carry every time he disappears between messages. “I wanted to see you in person.”

He nods, and his hands hover at his sides like he’s debating whether touching me will feel safe. “I’m here now.”

“Mm.” I step closer, and when he doesn’t pull back, I let my fingers slide into his hoodie sleeve. His skin is warm under the fabric. His breath shifts when I squeeze lightly, like he’s been holding himself still for too long.

“You’re nervous,” I say.

“I’m not,” he answers too fast.

I study him. The way his jaw tightens. The way his eyes don’t stay on mine. The way his shoulders sit a little too stiff.

“Amir,” I say his name like it’s a question.

He exhales. “I just… I wanted everything to be perfect.”

Perfect. Another dangerous word.

I guide him toward my bed, because my hands need to be doing something. We sit close enough that our knees touch. The phone is still in my palm, screen dark now, like it’s waiting too. I can hear the tiny hum of my heater. I can hear my own breath, loud and fast.

He leans in, and his mouth brushes my cheek - soft, careful. Then he pulls back to look at me. “You look beautiful,” he says, and the compliment feels like it’s been rehearsed.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” I admit, and it comes out rougher than I planned. “All day.”

His eyes soften. “Texting helps,” he says, and then he adds, quieter, “But it’s not the same.”

I feel my hope lift, like it’s ready to fly. “Then make it the same.”

He looks at me like he wants to say yes and no at the same time. His fingers find mine, interlacing gently. “Laila,” he says, and my name on his tongue makes my chest ache. “I need you to be patient.”

I almost laugh. I almost tell him I’ve been patient for a year. But I don’t. I’m too close to the moment I’ve been building toward.

I reach into the drawer beside my bed and pull out the small velvet box. My heart knocks against my ribs so hard it feels like it’s trying to get out first.

Amir’s eyes widen when he sees it. “What is that?”

“It’s for you,” I say, and my voice trembles anyway. “I want to marry you.”

The words hang between us, bright and terrifying. His fingers tighten around mine, then loosen like he’s suddenly not sure he’s holding the right thing.

I lift the lid. The ring inside catches the blue spill from my phone and turns it into something warm. I expected my hands to shake more. I expected fear.

Instead, I feel like I’m finally stepping out of a shadow.

“I proposed to you,” I whisper, half angry at myself for how much I want his reaction. “I’m asking you for real.”

His breath stutters. His gaze drops to the ring, then snaps back to my face. “Laila - ”

“Say something,” I beg, and it’s not dramatic. It’s just true. I want him to be the kind of man who answers. I want him to be the kind of man who chooses me out loud.

He swallows. His thumb rubs over my knuckles, absent, searching. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I did.” My eyes burn. “Because I need to know you’re not just writing me love. I need to feel it. I need to see it. I need you to be mine even when we’re not on a screen.”

His expression shifts - something like guilt flickering in his eyes, then disappearing fast. “I am yours,” he says. “I’ve always been.”

The way he says “always” makes my stomach twist, but I try to ignore it. I lift the ring slightly, offering it to him like a promise I can finally touch. “So will you marry me?”

Silence stretches. The heater hums. My phone stays facedown on the bed, forgotten for a heartbeat.

Then Amir nods - slow, like he’s making a decision that costs him something. He reaches for the ring with hands that hesitate only for a second.

When he slides it onto my finger, it fits like it was waiting. His eyes meet mine, and for once he doesn’t look away. His face is close now, warm against my cheek when he leans in.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course. Laila, yes.”

My breath leaves me in a rush. I laugh once, a broken sound, and my eyes spill tears I didn’t ask for. I cover his hands with mine, pressing the ringed finger against his knuckles like we’re sealing something.

“You said yes,” I repeat, like the words might vanish if I don’t keep them close.

“I did,” he murmurs, and his mouth finds mine. The kiss is gentle at first - testing, asking. Then it deepens, and his hands settle on my waist as if he finally gets to stop pretending I’m only a message thread. His breath tastes like mint and the faint bite of cold air.

For a moment, my body forgets the missing calls. For a moment, the year of waiting becomes worth it.

I press my forehead to his. “Thank you,” I whisper.

He strokes my cheek with the back of his thumb. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re going to make me prove it.”

I smile through tears. “I want you to prove it.”

He pulls back slightly, eyes scanning my face again. “Tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll talk tomorrow. About everything.”

About everything. Not “tonight.” Not “now.” Like he’s still building a wall around us.

I open my mouth to ask what he means, but my phone buzzes on the bed, vibrating hard enough to make the ring box rattle.

The sound snaps me out of the soft glow of yes.

I grab my phone, instinctive, hungry for the next word from him - some confirmation, some loving text to match the ring on my finger.

The screen lights up with a DM notification from social media. Unknown account. A name I don’t recognize. My thumb hovers, then taps.

A message loads fast - too fast, like it’s been waiting for the exact second I stopped being afraid.

You really think he’s yours?

My stomach drops so hard I feel dizzy. I scroll, fingers going numb. There are screenshots - carefully saved, timestamped. Messages between Amir and another woman. Proof. Not vague accusations. Not “maybe.” Not “what if.” Actual words. Actual pictures. A thread of cheating that makes my proposal feel like a joke someone else is laughing at behind my back.

My breath comes in short, sharp pulls. The room tilts, the heater suddenly too hot, my skin too tight.

I look up at Amir, still close, still holding my waist like the world is stable. His eyes are on me, gentle, expectant.

“What?” he asks, and he sounds calm in a way that makes me want to scream.

I show him my phone. My hands shake so much the screen blurs.

“Read it,” I say. The words scrape out of me. “Read it.”

For a second he doesn’t take it. He just stares - at the screen, at the proof, at the timestamps. His face goes still, like someone wiped his expressions off with a cloth.

“Laila,” he says carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal. “That isn’t - ”

“It is,” I cut in. My voice cracks. “It’s him. It’s his words. It’s - ”

I swipe through more. My eyes grab on details like they’re trying to find a loophole I can live in. But there isn’t one.

My chest feels hollow. My ring feels heavy, like it’s made of wet sand.

Amir reaches for my phone at last, taking it gently, like he’s afraid I’ll break. He scrolls faster, jaw working. His thumb pauses over one screenshot, and his face tightens so sharply I can see the strain in his throat.

“You got this from a stranger?” he asks, but his voice isn’t convincing. It’s defensive.

I laugh once, ugly. “A stranger who has proof?”

He looks up at me, and for the first time tonight I see something raw in his eyes - panic, maybe, or guilt. “Please,” he says. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?” My tears burn but don’t fall. “Don’t believe you cheated? Is that what you want? Is that what you’ve been writing me all this time - love you can type, and betrayal you can hide?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His gaze flickers to my ring again, like he can’t decide whether to be proud or sick.

“I didn’t - ” he starts.

Then my phone buzzes again, another notification from the same account. I look down because I can’t help myself, because hope is a habit even when it hurts.

The new message is shorter. Crueler.

He promised you tonight. He promised her too.

My throat clamps. My body goes cold in a way that has nothing to do with the air. The year we’ve been texting, the way he always avoided calls, the way he could show up in person but never let me fully in - suddenly it all rearranges itself into something ugly.

I stare at Amir. His hands are still around my phone, but he isn’t holding it like a man who’s about to explain. He’s holding it like evidence.

“Amir,” I say, and my voice is quiet now, dangerous in its calm. “Tell me the truth.”

His eyes search my face like he’s trying to find an angle where he can fix it without destroying us. “I can explain,” he says.

“Explain what?” I ask. “Explain why you’re still the same person on your screen with her? Explain why you needed me to wait for everything? Explain why you kissed me like yes meant forever when you were already lying?”

He stands up too fast, pacing half a step, then freezing when he realizes I’m not moving. His hoodie creases, the fabric catching the light. He looks like a man caught between two doors and refusing to choose.

“I loved you,” he says, and the words come out raw. “I do. I swear I do. That - those messages - there’s context. There’s a misunderstanding.”

My heart gives a painful, stubborn jerk at the word misunderstanding. I hate myself for still wanting to believe him.

But the screenshots don’t care about my need. The proof is still there on the screen, still there in my hand-shaped fear.

I swallow. My lips feel numb. “You can’t misunderstand cheating,” I say. “You can’t misunderstand proof.”

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Laila, I’m asking you to listen.”

I look down at my ring. At the way it catches the blue light. At the fact that he put it on my finger like it was real - like it was safe.

Then I look at his face, searching for the man I thought I knew through texts.

“I trusted you,” I whisper. “For a year. No calls. No face time. Always ‘soon.’ Always ‘wait.’ And you still found a way to be someone else with someone else.”

His mouth opens, then closes. He doesn’t have an answer that can undo what I’ve seen.

My vision clears in a brutal way. The heartbreak doesn’t explode - it locks in place, sharp and clean. I reach for the phone again, but he holds it tighter.

“Give it back,” I say.

He hesitates, and that hesitation is its own confession.

I snatch it from him anyway, fingers moving on instinct. My thumb hovers over the social media app. The feed feels like it’s spinning under my eyes.

I should ask more. I should listen to his explanation. I should pretend the night can still be saved.

Instead, my body chooses the only thing it knows how to do when trust is dead: cut the access.

My hands move fast. Block. Confirm. Remove. Every tap is sharp. Every vibration feels like relief and punishment at the same time.

Amir stands there, watching me like he can’t stop it. His voice is strained when he says, “Laila, stop.”

I don’t look up. “You stopped first,” I manage.

When I finally lift my eyes, the room looks the same - my bedroom, my warm air, my phone’s dim glow - but my life feels split in half. The ring on my finger gleams like it belongs to someone else.

Amir takes a step toward me, then stops, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he touches me.

“What are you doing?” he asks, quieter now.

I stare at him, and my chest aches with all the things I wanted to be true. “I’m protecting myself,” I say, and it sounds like a lie because I’m the one who asked him to come over.

His face tightens. “You don’t even know what I’ll say.”

I swallow. “I know enough.”

My phone buzzes one more time - after the blocks, after the chaos, after my decision. A message notification flashes on the lock screen anyway, like someone found a way around the wall.

Not from Amir’s account. From the same stranger.

The preview line reads: You’re not the only one he proposed to.

My stomach flips again, colder than before, because the yes I just accepted suddenly feels like the beginning of a pattern, not an ending.

I look at Amir. He looks at my phone. And neither of us speaks, because the air between us is full of a question neither of us wants to answer out loud.

End of chapter one. 4 more chapters in the full book.