Blocked Forever

My phone screen throws a cold blue light across my sheets, across my hands, across the mess of crumpled tissues I didn’t even remember using. Amir’s name is at the top of my notifications - still him, still the same little thread of us that has carried me for a year now. The message bubble sits there like a dare: Tonight?

I should be asleep. I should be in the real world with real people who don’t live in my pocket. But I’m not. I’m in my bedroom, the air warm from my heater, my hair stuck to my neck, my heart doing something stupid and hopeful every time his typing dots show up.

A year of mostly texting does that to you. It makes you believe you know someone because you can read their mood in the pauses. It makes you think longing is proof. Amir has been steady - good mornings, late-night check-ins, little jokes that always make me roll my eyes even when I’m alone. We don’t do calls. We don’t do face time. He’s always been careful about it, like the rest of the world is too loud and too careless and we can’t afford that kind of exposure. I told myself that meant he was respectful, that it meant he wanted me safe.

Still, when I type back - Yes. I’m ready - my thumb lingers like it’s afraid to leave the glass.

The message comes quick. I want you close.

I stare at those words until they start to feel like a hand on my ribs. Close is a dangerous word when you’ve never heard a voice. Close is a dangerous word when the only proof of breath you get is the rhythm of a keyboard.

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....