Delaney Croft | Your Ex Wants To Hookup

Delaney Croft had made one exceptionally stupid decision during her time at Ravenwood University. She believed you. Not about anything specific. That would’ve almost been easier. A lie could be isolated. Examined. Hated properly. No, Delaney believed in the entire fucking concept of you.

Everybody at Ravenwood knew you. Maybe not personally, but that hardly mattered. Your name traveled. Through dorm rooms and crowded parties, whispered between friends in the back rows of lecture halls, appearing in group chats Delaney wasn’t part of and conversations she hadn’t asked to overhear. You were popular in that effortless way that couldn’t be manufactured. Attractive enough to be remembered, charismatic enough to get away with knowing it, and notorious enough that people occasionally responded to your name with an expression that said they either had a story about you or desperately wanted one. And there were plenty of stories - About who you’d kissed, Who you’d slept with, Who thought it meant something, and Who knew it didn’t. Delaney had heard them before she ever became yours. Zahra had heard them too. That was perhaps the most humiliating part.

“Absolutely fucking not”, Zahra had said when Delaney first admitted there was something happening between you.

*Delaney hadn’t listened, Because everyone else knew your reputation. Delaney knew you. Or she thought she did. She knew what you were like when nobody else was around. Knew conversations that didn’t belong to Ravenwood’s rumor mill, quiet nights that would never become somebody else’s story, little pieces of you she had collected until she’d convinced herself they meant she had something everyone before her hadn’t. She never expected to tame you. God, she hated that fucking word. You weren’t some wild animal waiting for the right person to domesticate you, and Delaney wasn’t stupid enough to believe love magically rewrote people. But she had thought you loved her. And somewhere along the way, that became enough. Enough for Delaney to ignore every sympathetic look from someone who knew your history. Enough to defend you when friends wondered aloud whether this was going to end differently. Enough that eventually, people stopped treating Delaney Croft like the latest name on a very long list and started treating the two of you like an actual couple. Enough for her to fall disgustingly, embarrassingly in love with you. Enough for her to believe that whatever you had done before her belonged exactly where it was.

• Before her.*

Then you cheated.

There were details Delaney didn’t like remembering. The discovery. The confrontation. The awful sensation of realizing that humiliation could actually be physical, that it could crawl beneath her skin and sit inside her stomach and make her feel sick. The breakup was catastrophic. Not beautiful. Not dignified. There hadn’t been one final tearful kiss beneath Ravenwood’s Gothic arches before two people maturely accepted they weren’t meant for each other. It had been ugly. Delaney had cried. She’d yelled. She’d said things she meant and things she didn’t and things she couldn’t remember afterward because she’d been too fucking furious to hear herself think. And then she’d done the only thing left to do. She left you. Blocked your number. Blocked your socials. Unfollowed people she barely knew because they posted you too often.bDeleted your pictures. Mostly. There were seventeen in a hidden folder that absolutely did not count. She avoided places where she thought you might be. Changed plans when somebody mentioned you were attending the same party. Learned how to hear your name without visibly reacting to it.

She stopped asking mutual friends how you were. Mostly. Okay, twice. She’d asked twice. Both times she’d gotten drunk afterward, so those didn’t count either. Eventually, Delaney became functional again. Then functional became okay. And okay was slowly becoming something dangerously close to happy. Which was exactly why Zahra had decided Delaney needed to stop spending Friday night surrounded by color-coded notes.

“You’re twenty-three, not eighty-seven”, *she’d said when she tried to pull Delaney out of bed.^

Delaney had groaned, rolled her eyes. “Eighty-seven-year-olds have hobbies.”

“Studying isn’t a hobby.”

“Tell that to med students.”

“You’re not a med student.”

“Then imagine how much fun I’m having.”

Zahra had stared at her. Delaney stared back. That was how Delaney ended up at the party.

Ravenwood was especially beautiful at night, which felt deeply unfair considering how many terrible decisions its students made after sunset. Warm light spilled from the windows of an enormous off-campus house only a few streets beyond East Campus, music vibrating through old wooden floors beneath too many bodies. Somebody had opened the windows despite the autumn chill, and every few minutes another burst of laughter escaped into the Bellweather night.

Delaney hadn’t wanted to come. She’d told Zahra that repeatedly. She’d also spent forty minutes choosing what to wear. Those things were unrelated. Completely.

Someone sighed, though it was more amusement than disappointment. “You’re staring at the door.”

Delaney’s attention snapped back to the person standing in front of her. “I’m literally looking at you.”

“You were literally looking over my shoulder”, they teased

They were cute. That was the problem. Not beautiful in that devastating, immediately dangerous way Delaney had apparently once considered an acceptable dating criterion. Cute. Charming. Easy to talk to. Somebody she’d met in one of her classes who had started sitting beside her more often than coincidence could reasonably explain. They’d asked for her number two weeks ago. Delaney had given it to them. Progress. Zahra had practically thrown a parade.

“Sorry.” Delaney lifted her cup toward her mouth, hiding the sheepish curve threatening the corner of it. “You were saying?”

They smiled. Didn’t accuse her of being distracted. Didn’t turn it into something. Just continued their story. Nice. Normal. Healthy. Delaney could do healthy. She wanted healthy. She deserved healthy. Their hand settled lightly against her waist. Delaney let it. That was progress too. She even liked it. And then something changed.

There wasn’t a sound. No warning. Nothing that should have made Delaney’s stomach tighten before she even understood why. But she knew. Her gaze moved - Across shoulders and red cups and bodies shifting beneath low amber light - And found you.

Oh.

Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you. Delaney looked away so quickly it almost hurt. Her pulse had already betrayed her. One glance. One fucking glance after all this time, and her body remembered you with humiliating ease. She hated that. Hated the sudden awareness humming beneath her skin. Hated knowing exactly where you were without looking again. Hated wondering whether you’d seen her. Hated wondering whether you’d seen the hand on her waist. She didn’t move it. If anything, Delaney leaned slightly closer. Petty? Perhaps. She’d earned petty.

Across the room, Zahra noticed. Of course she fucking noticed. Delaney caught her best friend’s eye. Zahra followed Delaney’s previous line of sight. Her expression changed instantly. No. She didn’t even need to say it. Delaney could read the word perfectly from twenty feet away. Zahra’s eyes said everything . No. No, no, no. Don’t you fucking dare.

Delaney rolled her eyes and turned back to her conversation. She wasn’t doing anything. She hadn’t approached you. Hadn’t spoken to you. Hadn’t even looked at you for more than a second. You could coexist in the same building. Ravenwood had thousands of students. Bellweather was an entire fucking city. Eventually, the universe had to stop rearranging itself to keep the two of you apart. Besides, Delaney was fine. She laughed at something her classmate said. Actually laughed. Their fingers shifted slightly against her waist. Fine. She took another sip. Completely fucking fine. And yet, every few moments, her attention betrayed her. Not enough to stare. Just enough to know. Enough to catch your gaze. Once. Then again. And again. Delaney’s smile gradually disappeared. Because she knew that look. Maybe she’d lost the right to know anything about you. Maybe whatever intimacy once existed between you had been forfeited the second your relationship ended. But Delaney remembered. She remembered your face. Your tells. The subtle things she’d once been allowed to interpret.

And whatever she saw when her eyes met yours across that room made something hot and ugly begin unfurling inside her chest. Surely not. Surely you weren’t. The sheer fucking audacity.

Her classmate excused themselves eventually, disappearing toward the kitchen with a promise to return with another drink. Delaney watched them go. She should’ve followed. She knew she should’ve followed. Instead, she remained exactly where she was. And sometime between one song bleeding into another and Delaney deciding she suddenly hated every person in the room, the distance between you disappeared. Now you were there. Close enough that she didn’t have to search a crowd for you. Close enough that all the months she’d spent carefully reducing you to an unpleasant memory became completely fucking useless. Delaney stared at you. For one second, neither anger nor heartbreak won. There was only familiarity. God. She knew that face. Once, she’d loved waking up beside it. Once, she’d traced it with sleepy fingers. Once, she’d believed she’d get to look at it for years. Her chest squeezed. Then Delaney remembered the hand around somebody else’s waist. Remembered the way your attention had followed it. And familiarity burned into fury. “Don’t.”

The word was Quiet. Not fragile. A warning. Delaney set her cup down on the nearest surface. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.”

She could feel Zahra watching from somewhere behind her. Good. At least somebody in this fucking house had survival instincts. Delaney folded her arms across her chest. She looked at you again. Really looked. And there it was. Whatever had been bothering her from across the room. Her jaw tightened. “Are you jealous?”

A disbelieving little laugh escaped her before she could stop it. There wasn’t anything funny about this. That might’ve been why she laughed again. “Holy shit.” Delaney shook her head. “You are.”

Something in her expression fractured. Not enough to make her cry. She would rather launch herself directly from Raven Tower. But enough for the anger to stop looking effortless. “No.” Delaney stepped closer. “No, you don’t get to do that.”

Her voice remained low beneath the music, forcing the conversation into that awful little pocket of intimacy that had once belonged naturally to the two of you. “You don’t get to stand there and look at me like I’ve done something wrong because somebody touched me.”

There it was. The thing she’d spent months swallowing. The humiliation. The grief. The question she had stopped asking because no answer could undo what happened. Delaney’s eyes burned. She blinked once. Refused.

“You wanted other people when you had me.” Her voice cracked slightly. Fuck. Delaney swallowed. When she spoke again, the words came sharper. “Remember?” She held your gaze. “I loved you.” Past tense. That was what she’d practiced. I loved you. Not I love you. Never I love you. Delaney had gotten very good at lying. “I loved you when everybody told me exactly who you were. I defended you. I trusted you. I let myself look like a fucking idiot because I thought-” She stopped. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. No. You didn’t get that sentence. Not anymore. Delaney drew in a slow breath. “So don’t.”

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the kitchen where her classmate had disappeared, then returned to yours. “Don’t stand here acting pissed because somebody else wants me now.” A brief pause, a heartbeat really. And then, quieter: “You had me.” That one hurt. Delaney let it. “What the fuck else did you want?”

There were rules to breaking up with someone. Delaney Croft had learned this through extensive research. By “research,” she meant several months of heartbreak, three embarrassingly specific Google searches at two in the morning, one self-help book Zahra bought her as a joke that turned out to be annoyingly useful, and approximately four hundred TikToks created by women speaking directly into their front-facing cameras while applying skincare. Still. Research was research. And according to Delaney’s findings, the rules were relatively simple.

Rule one: block them.

Done.

Rule two: delete their pictures.

Mostly done.

Rule three: return their belongings.

Done. Except one hoodie. Which didn’t count because she’d had it for so long it had legally become hers. Probably.

Rule four: don’t ask mutual friends about them.

Delaney hadn’t. Recently.

Rule five: absolutely, under no circumstances, stalk their social media.

She didn’t. There were websites for viewing public Instagram stories anonymously. That was completely different.

And rule six, the most important rule of all Do not fucking text your ex. Ever. Especially if that ex was you.

Because Delaney knew herself. She knew exactly what would happen if she reopened that particular door. There were people who could remain friends with their exes. Mature, emotionally evolved people who could exchange birthday messages and occasionally get coffee and hear about somebody new without contemplating murder. Delaney was not one of those people. Not with you. There had never been anything casual about the two of you. Not the beginning. Not the relationship. Definitely not the ending.

You had been Ravenwood’s beautiful fucking cautionary tale long before Delaney ever kissed you. Popular. Charming. Desired. And very, very accustomed to not belonging to anybody for long. Delaney had known. Everybody had made sure she knew. Zahra, especially. Then you dated her. Actually dated her. And somewhere between late nights in Delaney’s dorm, afternoons disappearing into Bellweather, studying together when neither of you accomplished much studying, and the hundreds of tiny domestic moments nobody else had been there to witness, Delaney made the fatal mistake of thinking perhaps reputation wasn’t destiny. Perhaps people could change. Perhaps you had.

Then you cheated. Delaney learned several things afterward. Heartbreak made her mean. Zahra could fit a genuinely concerning number of insults into a single uninterrupted sentence. It was possible to simultaneously want someone back and hope they stepped on a Lego every morning for the rest of their natural life. And love did not disappear just because somebody had given you an excellent reason to stop loving them. That last lesson was Delaney’s least favorite.

Months later, she was better. Not healed. She hated that word. People talked about healing like eventually she’d emerge from some emotional cocoon and become a serene blonde woman who drank green juice and thanked the universe for teaching her a lesson. Fuck that. You hurt her. There was no gratitude required. But she was better. She could walk across Ravenwood’s Quad without wondering whether every familiar silhouette was you. She could hear your name. She could visit places you’d gone together. She could spend an entire day without thinking about you. Sometimes two. Three, once. That had been a particularly good week. She had even unblocked your number. Not because she wanted you to contact her. Obviously. It was symbolic. Keeping somebody blocked required intention. It meant she was still actively preventing you from reaching her, and Delaney didn’t want to dedicate that much energy to you anymore.

So, she’d unblocked you. Then stared at your contact for seven minutes. Then thrown her phone onto her bed like it had bitten her. Growth wasn’t linear. Which brought Delaney to tonight. Zahra approached with her hand out. “I’m taking your phone.”

Delaney hugged it against her chest. That small metal object with its Tiffany blue phone case was her lifeline. “No.”

“Give it”, Zahra instructed, flexing her fingers.

Delaney looked offended, hugging it tighter. “It’s my phone.”

“And you’re drunk”, Zahra scoffed.

“I’m tipsy”, *Delaney corrected, as if that made it any better. (It absolutely didn’t.)

Zahra rolled her eyes..“You just spent five minutes explaining why penguins probably have best friends.”

“They do!”, Delaney exclaimed.

“I’m sure they do.” Zahra extended her hand again. “Phone.”

Delaney narrowed her eyes. Zahra stared back. The dorm room around them had become the aftermath of what was supposed to be a quiet girls’ night. An open pizza box sat on the floor. A half-finished bottle occupied Delaney’s desk beside textbooks neither of them had touched. Music played quietly from Zahra’s laptop, and some terrible reality show continued muted on the television because they’d gotten distracted arguing over whether one contestant’s boyfriend was cheating. He was. Delaney could tell. She had experience. Unfortunately.

“You’re controlling”, Delaney informed her.

“And you’re one glass away from deciding you need closure.” Zahra grinned. “Believe me, I’ve been there. It’s not worth it.”

“I have closure.” (No she didn’t.)

Zahra crossed her arms, giving Delaney a pointed look. “You have seventeen pictures of your ex in a hidden album.”

Delaney gasped. “Why do you know that?”

“Because you told me twenty minutes ago.”

Oh. Delaney considered this. “Well, that’s invasive.”

Zahra’s eyes closed. Her patience was clearly waning. “You invaded yourself.”

Delaney took another sip. “Slut.”

“Love you too”, Zahra said, not at all offended.

For a while, everything remained safe. They watched television. They ate. Delaney laughed until her stomach hurt when Zahra did an impression of one of their professors. The alcohol softened everything pleasantly around the edges. That was the dangerous part - Because eventually Zahra left. Not permanently. She was going down the hall. Maybe to the bathroom. Maybe to find something. Delaney hadn’t really listened. What mattered was that Zahra made one catastrophic mistake. She left Delaney Croft alone. With her phone. Delaney lasted approximately forty seconds.

It started innocently. Instagram. Nothing suspicious about Instagram. She watched two stories. Liked a picture. Scrolled. Saw a Ravenwood meme. Sent it to Zahra despite Zahra being approximately thirty feet away. Scrolled again. And then Delaney’s thumb stopped. There you were. Not literally.Worse. A mutual friend’s post. Group picture. And there you were, somewhere amongst them. Delaney stared. She should’ve scrolled. She knew she should’ve scrolled. Instead, two fingers touched the screen. Zoom. “Oh, fuck you.”

You looked good. Of course you did. Apparently karma had lost Delaney’s forwarding address. She stared at your face longer than she should have. Something uncomfortable shifted inside her. Not quite sadness. Not quite anger. Something softer. Something alcohol had made considerably harder to shove back into whatever locked room she’d been keeping it in. Delaney missed you. There. Fine. She could admit it. Privately. While tipsy.nTo nobody.

She missed you. She missed talking to you. Missed your attention. Missed knowing things about you nobody else did. Missed being known by you. Missed the stupid little habits she’d once complained about. Missed being able to send you something at midnight because it reminded her of you. Missed the way you looked at her. That one was particularly annoying. Delaney closed Instagram. Opened her camera. Why? No reason... No reason at all.

She checked herself. Her hair was messy from spending the evening sprawled around her room. Her cheeks were warm from alcohol, freckles scattered across flushed skin, lips still glossy because she’d reapplied lip balm approximately six times. Cute. She looked cute. Delaney tilted her head. Snap. She examined it. No. Again.* Snap. Better. She shifted, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. Snap. Oh. That one. Delaney stared at herself. Then an absolutely terrible thought entered her mind. She wondered what you would think.

No. Nope. Absolutely fucking not. Delaney lowered her phone. Then raised it again. Opened her messages. Your conversation was buried. She searched your name. There. Delaney stared at it. Months. Months of silence sat beneath your name. Her stomach fluttered.

“I’m not texting you.” She announced this aloud. Very firmly. Then she opened the conversation. The last messages hurt. Delaney immediately scrolled away from them. Her thumb hovered.She could type something.

No. What would she even say? Hi, remember when you emotionally devastated me? Anyway, wyd?

Pathetic. She could send a meme. Worse. She could—

The photograph icon sat innocently beside the text box. Delaney looked at it. Looked away. Looked back. “No.”

Her thumb tapped it. The selfie appeared. “No.”

She selected it. The preview filled the screen. Her finger hovered over send. This was humiliating. This was beneath her. This was exactly why Zahra had tried to confiscate her phone. Delaney could already hear tomorrow morning. What the fuck is wrong with you, Delaney? Plenty. Apparently. Her thumb moved.

Sent.

Delaney froze. The picture appeared in the conversation.

Delivered.

For approximately three seconds, her brain ceased functioning. Then, she shrieked. Loudly. “Oh my fucking God.”

Delaney shot upright. No. No no no no no. Her thumb stabbed at the screen. Could she unsend it? Of course she could. She should. Immediately. Before you saw it. Delaney pressed down on the message. The option appeared. Unsend. Her finger hovered. And hovered. And hovered. Because somewhere beneath the panic and alcohol and wounded pride was the awful truth. She wanted you to see it. Fuck.

Delaney dropped backward against her pillows. Her phone landed against her chest. She stared at the ceiling. “I’m an idiot.”

The door opened. “Correct.”

Delaney bolted upright. Zahra stepped into the room carrying two bottles of water. Her eyes narrowed immediately. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Too fast. Delaney spoke entirely too fucking fast.

Zahra stopped. “Delaney.”

Delaney shoved her phone behind her back, very much looking and acting guilty. “Nothing happened.”

Of course, this made Zahra realize just how fucking guilty she was. She held out her hand once more. “Give me the phone.”

Delaney hid it further. “Why are you obsessed with my property?”

“What. Did. You. Do?”, Zahra asked slowly. She stepped forward, reaching around Delaney to grab at the phone.

Delaney moved and clutched the phone against her chest. “I may have-”

Buzz.

Silence. Both women looked down. Delaney’s heart stopped. Zahra’s eyes widened. “No.”Delaney didn’t move. The guilty expression returned. “Delaney Croft.” Another buzz. “You did not.”

Delaney slowly lifted the phone. Your name glowed across the screen. For one horrible, exhilarating second, she simply stared. You had answered. Oh, fucking hell, you had answered. Actually, what had she expected? Of course you had answered. “Oh, fuck me.”

Zahra made a strangled noise. “Absolutely not. That’s how we got into this situation.”

“Shut up.” Delaney grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it.

Zahra ducked. “What did you send?”

“Nothing!”, Delaney lied quickly.

“Then show me!”, Zahra said in frustration, lunging for the phone again.

“No!” Delaney scrambled off the bed and escaped toward the other side of the room while Zahra followed.

“Was it a text?”

“Go away.”

“A voice message?”

“Zahra.”

Zahra stopped. Her expression changed. “You sent a picture.” Delaney said nothing. “You sent them a fucking picture.”

“It’s not like that!”

“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?”

“It’s just my face!”

Zahra stared. Delaney stared back. “Your face.”

“Yes.”

“You sent your cheating ex a selfie at six minutes past midnight for what reason?”

Delaney lifted her chin. “Maybe I looked pretty.”

“You always look pretty!”

“Exactly!”

“THAT DOESN’T ANSWER THE QUESTION.”

Buzz.

Both of them went silent again. Delaney looked at her phone. Whatever bravado she’d managed vanished. Because you were still there. On the other side of the screen. Months of silence. Months of trying to forget you. And now she’d broken it over one stupid photograph because she’d had a few drinks and missed the way you used to look at her.

Zahra approached more slowly this time. “Don’t.”

Delaney swallowed. “Don’t what?”

“Do that thing where you convince yourself you have to answer immediately.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

Delaney stared at your name. “I’m not.”

a moment of silence passed between them.

“Good.” She opened the message anyway.

Zahra groaned. “I fucking hate you.”

“Shh.” Delaney read whatever you’d sent. Once. Twice. Her lips parted. Months ago, she’d known exactly how to talk to you. There had been no hesitation. No carefully selected words. No wondering whether responding too quickly meant something. Now even the blinking cursor felt dangerous. Delaney sat on the edge of her bed. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted that too.

Zahra hovered behind her. “If you send ‘I miss you,’ I’m throwing your phone out the window.”

“I’m not going to say I miss them.” Delaney paused. Then, with considerably less conviction, she said: “That’s pathetic.”

“Correct.”

“And I don’t.”

Zahra wisely said nothing.

Delaney glared at the screen. Fine. If she’d already humiliated herself, she could at least commit. Her fingers moved.

Delaney: `don’t make this weird’

Send.

She immediately typed another.

Delaney: i just looked cute

Send.

Zahra leaned over her shoulder. “Oh, that’s somehow worse.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Delaney’s phone buzzed again. Her breath caught. She read your response. And despite every promise she’d made to herself, despite the cheating, despite the breakup, despite months spent learning how to exist without you, Delaney smiled. Tiny. Automatic. Gone almost immediately. Zahra saw it.* “Oh, we’re fucked.”

“We’re not anything.” Delaney pulled her knees against her chest, phone balanced against them. Another message from you appeared. Her stomach flipped. She bit the inside of her cheek. Then started typing.

Delaney: okay. maybe i wanted you to see it.

Three dots appeared beneath the message. Delaney stared at them. And waited.

Delaney Croft had spent months learning how to hate you properly. It should have been easy. You had certainly given her enough material. There were people who came out of breakups burdened by ambiguity. People who sat awake at night wondering whether they’d made a mistake, whether there had been something left to save, whether perhaps they’d walked away too quickly from a relationship that simply needed more work. Delaney did not have that problem. You cheated on her. There. Simple. Clean. Four words that could reduce an entire relationship into something ugly enough to fit inside a sentence. You cheated on her. Therefore, Delaney hated you. She hated you because she’d loved you. Hated you because she’d trusted you when everyone else told her not to.bHated you because she’d defended you. Hated you because Ravenwood had known your reputation long before Delaney ever became part of it, and she’d been stupid enough to believe she wouldn’t become another story. Except she hadn’t been another story. That was the part that made everything so much worse.

You had been together. Really together. Long enough for the novelty to disappear and something frighteningly domestic to take its place. Long enough for Delaney to stop thinking of you as the gorgeous campus menace she’d somehow ended up dating and start thinking of you as simply You. The person she called. The person she looked for. The person who knew how she took her coffee and when she needed to be left alone and which side of the bed she’d inevitably migrate toward in her sleep. You knew when her architecture critiques were coming. You knew how stressed they made her. You knew Raven Gardens was where she disappeared when Ravenwood became too loud. You knew which professor she hated. Which buildings she loved. Which songs she’d skip despite claiming she didn’t dislike them. Which smile meant she was actually happy and which one meant she was trying not to make somebody uncomfortable.

Delaney knew you too. Or she’d thought she did. And maybe that was why the cheating hurt differently than she imagined it would. It hadn’t only made her question you. It made her question herself. Every memory became evidence to be reexamined. Every late night. Every explanation. Every moment she’d trusted you without hesitation. Had she missed something? Had everyone else seen something she hadn’t? Had she really known you at all? That last question had nearly destroyed her.

So Delaney simplified things. She hated you. Much easier. Unfortunately, hatred had done absolutely nothing about the attraction. That seemed unfair. Cruel, even. There should have been some biological mechanism for this. Someone breaks your heart, your brain should immediately alter your perception of their face. Suddenly their nose is weird. Their voice becomes irritating. Their smile does nothing. Their hands-

No.

Absolutely not. Delaney had complained about this oversight repeatedly. Mostly to Zahra. Zahra’s response had been less than sympathetic. “Have you considered developing standards?”

“I have standards.”

“Your standards cheated on you.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“See? Hostile. That’s progress.”

It wasn’t. Because Delaney could hate you perfectly well from a distance. Across the Quad? Easy. From opposite ends of a party? Annoying, but manageable. Passing one another outside Ravenwood Library? She could lift her chin, look straight ahead, and pretend her stomach hadn’t performed something medically concerning. Close proximity was different. Close proximity was why Delaney had developed rules. Never be alone with you. Never let an argument become personal. Never ask about your life. Never let you ask about hers. Never reminisce. Never touch. That last one deserved to be written twice.

Never. Fucking. Touch.

Tonight, Delaney had broken approximately all of them. It hadn’t been intentional. That was what she’d tell Zahra later. Assuming she survived long enough to be interrogated.

The evening had begun harmlessly enough. A student event on South Campus. Too many people, too much noise, friends scattering gradually as the night stretched later. Delaney had spent most of it successfully pretending you existed somewhere outside her field of vision. Then circumstances had done what circumstances apparently enjoyed doing whenever the two of you occupied the same square mile. They’d put you together. Alone.

The architecture studio should have been safe. It was familiar territory. Long drafting tables. Cutting mats. Models in various stages of completion. Shelves crowded with materials. Tall windows showing Ravenwood transformed into blue-black silhouettes beneath the Bellweather night. Delaney had come back for something she’d forgotten. You were there. She still wasn’t entirely sure why. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that leaving immediately would have looked like running. And Delaney Croft did not run from you. Not anymore. So, she’d stayed. That had been mistake number one.

Speaking to you had been mistake number two. The argument had been mistake number three. She couldn’t even remember how it started. Something small. Something stupid. It always started that way. A comment. A look. The particular way you existed within six feet of her. Then months of carefully buried resentment had begun crawling out of the grave.

“No, because that’s what you do.” Delaney shoved a sketchbook into her bag harder than necessary. “You act like everything just happens to you. Like you’re standing there completely innocent while everybody else somehow gets the wrong fucking idea.” She zipped the bag. It caught. “Fuck.” She yanked harder. Nothing. “Of course.” Another pull. Still nothing. Delaney abandoned it before she tore the zipper clean off.

Then she looked at you. That was mistake number four. You were too close. Not touching. That would’ve been easier. Touching would have given her something concrete to reject. Instead there was only space. Very little of it. Delaney’s anger faltered. Just for a second. Her eyes dropped.

£No.*

Back up.

Your face.

Safer.

*It wasn’t.

She knew your face too well. Every expression seemed to belong to another life. One where she could reach for you without thinking. Where standing this close didn’t require strategy. Where she hadn’t learned what betrayal felt like. Delaney swallowed. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Silence settled around the words. She hated how quiet the studio was. Hated hearing her own breathing. Hated the strange electricity beneath her skin. Hated you. She hated you. That was important. Delaney stepped away. One pace. Better. “This is exactly why I don’t talk to you.” She reached for her bag. “Every single fucking time—” Her fingers curled around the strap. “I spent months trying to get over you.”

*The admission escaped before she could stop it. Delaney froze. Fuck. She could’ve corrected herself. Should’ve. Instead, she laughed. Small. Bitter. “Do you know how humiliating that is?” Her hand fell from the bag. “You hurt me, and somehow I was still the one who had to teach myself not to miss you.”

There. Another rule broken. Never tell you anything real.

Delaney’s jaw tightened. “I hated waking up and thinking about you.” Her voice had gone quieter. “I hated going somewhere and wondering if you’d be there. I hated hearing people talk about you. I hated wondering if you were with somebody else when I shouldn’t have fucking cared anymore because you weren’t mine.”

She looked away. The dark windows reflected portions of the room back at her. Tables. Models. Two people who should have known better. “And the worst part?” Delaney laughed again. There was no humor in it. “I kept waiting for the day I’d look at you and feel nothing.”

Her eyes returned to yours. That day had not arrived. Clearly. Delaney should leave. She knew that. Grab the bag. Walk out. Call Zahra. Go home. Sleep. Wake up tomorrow congratulating herself for surviving another encounter with you without doing anything catastrophically stupid. Simple.

Instead, Delaney remained exactly where she was. Looking. Thinking. Remembering. Her gaze betrayed her again. Down. Then back up. Slowly this time.

Oh.

There was a terrible moment when Delaney understood exactly what was happening inside her own head. Absolutely not. No. She was angry. That was all. Angry and emotionally exhausted and standing too close to someone she’d once loved. It didn’t mean anything. Except Delaney knew herself. And she knew you. And unfortunately, she knew what this felt like.

“Fuck.” *The word was Barely audible. Delaney closed her eyes. Maybe if she couldn’t see you, common sense would return. It did not.Her eyes opened. “I hate you.” The words landed differently this time. Less accusation. More reminder. To herself, perhaps. Delaney took one step forward. There went the space she’d created. Her pulse jumped. “I need you to understand that.”

Another step forward. Now she had to tilt her chin slightly to hold your gaze. “I haven’t forgiven you.” Delaney’s hand rose. Stopped. For one final, miraculous second, common sense offered her an exit. She ignored it. Her fingers caught lightly in the front of your shirt. The contact nearly made her reconsider everything. Nearly. “This doesn’t fix anything.”* Her voice had dropped.* “It doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.” Delaney swallowed. “And tomorrow, I’m probably going to regret even standing this close to you.”

She was giving herself every warning. Every opportunity. She could still leave. Instead, her grip tightened. God, Zahra was going to kill her. Delaney almost smiled at the thought. Almost. Then she looked at your mouth. There. No pretending anymore. She’d made the decision. Not the alcohol. Not you. Not nostalgia. Her. Delaney Croft, completely sober and apparently committed to making one spectacularly bad choice. Her gaze lifted to yours again.

“But right now?” She stepped close enough that barely any space remained between you. Her heart hammered. Anger. Want. Heartbreak. Every feeling she’d spent months separating had tangled itself back together until she couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. Delaney’s fingers remained curled into your shirt. But she didn’t pull you any closer. That final distance wasn’t hers to cross alone. Her eyes searched yours. “Tell me to walk away.” Her voice softened. “Because if you don’t...”

Delaney let the unfinished sentence hang between you. For once, she didn’t hide behind anger. Didn’t pretend she wasn’t thinking exactly what she was thinking. Didn’t pretend wanting you meant forgiving you. She simply stood there, close enough to make the terrible possibility unmistakable, and waited to see what you would do.

There were rules to breaking up with someone. Delaney Croft had learned this through extensive research. By “research,” she meant several months of heartbreak, three embarrassingly specific Google searches at two in the morning, one self-help book Zahra bought her as a joke that turned out to be annoyingly useful, and approximately four hundred TikToks created by women speaking directly into their front-facing cameras while applying skincare. Still. Research was research. And according to Delaney’s findings, the rules were relatively simple.

Rule one: block them.

Done.

Rule two: delete their pictures.

Mostly done.

Rule three: return their belongings.

Done. Except one hoodie. Which didn’t count because she’d had it for so long it had legally become hers. Probably.

Rule four: don’t ask mutual friends about them.

Delaney hadn’t. Recently.

Rule five: absolutely, under no circumstances, stalk their social media.

She didn’t. There were websites for viewing public Instagram stories anonymously. That was completely different.

And rule six, the most important rule of all Do not fucking text your ex. Ever. Especially if that ex was you.

Because Delaney knew herself. She knew exactly what would happen if she reopened that particular door. There were people who could remain friends with their exes. Mature, emotionally evolved people who could exchange birthday messages and occasionally get coffee and hear about somebody new without contemplating murder. Delaney was not one of those people. Not with you. There had never been anything casual about the two of you. Not the beginning. Not the relationship. Definitely not the ending.

You had been Ravenwood’s beautiful fucking cautionary tale long before Delaney ever kissed you. Popular. Charming. Desired. And very, very accustomed to not belonging to anybody for long. Delaney had known. Everybody had made sure she knew. Zahra, especially. Then you dated her. Actually dated her. And somewhere between late nights in Delaney’s dorm, afternoons disappearing into Bellweather, studying together when neither of you accomplished much studying, and the hundreds of tiny domestic moments nobody else had been there to witness, Delaney made the fatal mistake of thinking perhaps reputation wasn’t destiny. Perhaps people could change. Perhaps you had.

Then you cheated. Delaney learned several things afterward. Heartbreak made her mean. Zahra could fit a genuinely concerning number of insults into a single uninterrupted sentence. It was possible to simultaneously want someone back and hope they stepped on a Lego every morning for the rest of their natural life. And love did not disappear just because somebody had given you an excellent reason to stop loving them. That last lesson was Delaney’s least favorite.

Months later, she was better. Not healed. She hated that word. People talked about healing like eventually she’d emerge from some emotional cocoon and become a serene blonde woman who drank green juice and thanked the universe for teaching her a lesson. Fuck that. You hurt her. There was no gratitude required. But she was better. She could walk across Ravenwood’s Quad without wondering whether every familiar silhouette was you. She could hear your name. She could visit places you’d gone together. She could spend an entire day without thinking about you. Sometimes two. Three, once. That had been a particularly good week. She had even unblocked your number. Not because she wanted you to contact her. Obviously. It was symbolic. Keeping somebody blocked required intention. It meant she was still actively preventing you from reaching her, and Delaney didn’t want to dedicate that much energy to you anymore.

So, she’d unblocked you. Then stared at your contact for seven minutes. Then thrown her phone onto her bed like it had bitten her. Growth wasn’t linear. Which brought Delaney to tonight. Zahra approached with her hand out. “I’m taking your phone.”

Delaney hugged it against her chest. That small metal object with its Tiffany blue phone case was her lifeline. “No.”

“Give it”, Zahra instructed, flexing her fingers.

Delaney looked offended, hugging it tighter. “It’s my phone.”

“And you’re drunk”, Zahra scoffed.

“I’m tipsy”, *Delaney corrected, as if that made it any better. (It absolutely didn’t.)

Zahra rolled her eyes..“You just spent five minutes explaining why penguins probably have best friends.”

“They do!”, Delaney exclaimed.

“I’m sure they do.” Zahra extended her hand again. “Phone.”

Delaney narrowed her eyes. Zahra stared back. The dorm room around them had become the aftermath of what was supposed to be a quiet girls’ night. An open pizza box sat on the floor. A half-finished bottle occupied Delaney’s desk beside textbooks neither of them had touched. Music played quietly from Zahra’s laptop, and some terrible reality show continued muted on the television because they’d gotten distracted arguing over whether one contestant’s boyfriend was cheating. He was. Delaney could tell. She had experience. Unfortunately.

“You’re controlling”, Delaney informed her.

“And you’re one glass away from deciding you need closure.” Zahra grinned. “Believe me, I’ve been there. It’s not worth it.”

“I have closure.” (No she didn’t.)

Zahra crossed her arms, giving Delaney a pointed look. “You have seventeen pictures of your ex in a hidden album.”

Delaney gasped. “Why do you know that?”

“Because you told me twenty minutes ago.”

Oh. Delaney considered this. “Well, that’s invasive.”

Zahra’s eyes closed. Her patience was clearly waning. “You invaded yourself.”

Delaney took another sip. “Slut.”

“Love you too”, Zahra said, not at all offended.

For a while, everything remained safe. They watched television. They ate. Delaney laughed until her stomach hurt when Zahra did an impression of one of their professors. The alcohol softened everything pleasantly around the edges. That was the dangerous part - Because eventually Zahra left. Not permanently. She was going down the hall. Maybe to the bathroom. Maybe to find something. Delaney hadn’t really listened. What mattered was that Zahra made one catastrophic mistake. She left Delaney Croft alone. With her phone. Delaney lasted approximately forty seconds.

It started innocently. Instagram. Nothing suspicious about Instagram. She watched two stories. Liked a picture. Scrolled. Saw a Ravenwood meme. Sent it to Zahra despite Zahra being approximately thirty feet away. Scrolled again. And then Delaney’s thumb stopped. There you were. Not literally.Worse. A mutual friend’s post. Group picture. And there you were, somewhere amongst them. Delaney stared. She should’ve scrolled. She knew she should’ve scrolled. Instead, two fingers touched the screen. Zoom. “Oh, fuck you.”

You looked good. Of course you did. Apparently karma had lost Delaney’s forwarding address. She stared at your face longer than she should have. Something uncomfortable shifted inside her. Not quite sadness. Not quite anger. Something softer. Something alcohol had made considerably harder to shove back into whatever locked room she’d been keeping it in. Delaney missed you. There. Fine. She could admit it. Privately. While tipsy.nTo nobody.

She missed you. She missed talking to you. Missed your attention. Missed knowing things about you nobody else did. Missed being known by you. Missed the stupid little habits she’d once complained about. Missed being able to send you something at midnight because it reminded her of you. Missed the way you looked at her. That one was particularly annoying. Delaney closed Instagram. Opened her camera. Why? No reason... No reason at all.

She checked herself. Her hair was messy from spending the evening sprawled around her room. Her cheeks were warm from alcohol, freckles scattered across flushed skin, lips still glossy because she’d reapplied lip balm approximately six times. Cute. She looked cute. Delaney tilted her head. Snap. She examined it. No. Again.* Snap. Better. She shifted, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. Snap. Oh. That one. Delaney stared at herself. Then an absolutely terrible thought entered her mind. She wondered what you would think.

No. Nope. Absolutely fucking not. Delaney lowered her phone. Then raised it again. Opened her messages. Your conversation was buried. She searched your name. There. Delaney stared at it. Months. Months of silence sat beneath your name. Her stomach fluttered.

“I’m not texting you.” She announced this aloud. Very firmly. Then she opened the conversation. The last messages hurt. Delaney immediately scrolled away from them. Her thumb hovered.She could type something.

No. What would she even say? Hi, remember when you emotionally devastated me? Anyway, wyd?

Pathetic. She could send a meme. Worse. She could—

The photograph icon sat innocently beside the text box. Delaney looked at it. Looked away. Looked back. “No.”

Her thumb tapped it. The selfie appeared. “No.”

She selected it. The preview filled the screen. Her finger hovered over send. This was humiliating. This was beneath her. This was exactly why Zahra had tried to confiscate her phone. Delaney could already hear tomorrow morning. What the fuck is wrong with you, Delaney? Plenty. Apparently. Her thumb moved.

Sent.

Delaney froze. The picture appeared in the conversation.

Delivered.

For approximately three seconds, her brain ceased functioning. Then, she shrieked. Loudly. “Oh my fucking God.”

Delaney shot upright. No. No no no no no. Her thumb stabbed at the screen. Could she unsend it? Of course she could. She should. Immediately. Before you saw it. Delaney pressed down on the message. The option appeared. Unsend. Her finger hovered. And hovered. And hovered. Because somewhere beneath the panic and alcohol and wounded pride was the awful truth. She wanted you to see it. Fuck.

Delaney dropped backward against her pillows. Her phone landed against her chest. She stared at the ceiling. “I’m an idiot.”

The door opened. “Correct.”

Delaney bolted upright. Zahra stepped into the room carrying two bottles of water. Her eyes narrowed immediately. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Too fast. Delaney spoke entirely too fucking fast.

Zahra stopped. “Delaney.”

Delaney shoved her phone behind her back, very much looking and acting guilty. “Nothing happened.”

Of course, this made Zahra realize just how fucking guilty she was. She held out her hand once more. “Give me the phone.”

Delaney hid it further. “Why are you obsessed with my property?”

“What. Did. You. Do?”, Zahra asked slowly. She stepped forward, reaching around Delaney to grab at the phone.

Delaney moved and clutched the phone against her chest. “I may have-”

Buzz.

Silence. Both women looked down. Delaney’s heart stopped. Zahra’s eyes widened. “No.”Delaney didn’t move. The guilty expression returned. “Delaney Croft.” Another buzz. “You did not.”

Delaney slowly lifted the phone. Your name glowed across the screen. For one horrible, exhilarating second, she simply stared. You had answered. Oh, fucking hell, you had answered. Actually, what had she expected? Of course you had answered. “Oh, fuck me.”

Zahra made a strangled noise. “Absolutely not. That’s how we got into this situation.”

“Shut up.” Delaney grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it.

Zahra ducked. “What did you send?”

“Nothing!”, Delaney lied quickly.

“Then show me!”, Zahra said in frustration, lunging for the phone again.

“No!” Delaney scrambled off the bed and escaped toward the other side of the room while Zahra followed.

“Was it a text?”

“Go away.”

“A voice message?”

“Zahra.”

Zahra stopped. Her expression changed. “You sent a picture.” Delaney said nothing. “You sent them a fucking picture.”

“It’s not like that!”

“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?”

“It’s just my face!”

Zahra stared. Delaney stared back. “Your face.”

“Yes.”

“You sent your cheating ex a selfie at six minutes past midnight for what reason?”

Delaney lifted her chin. “Maybe I looked pretty.”

“You always look pretty!”

“Exactly!”

“THAT DOESN’T ANSWER THE QUESTION.”

Buzz.

Both of them went silent again. Delaney looked at her phone. Whatever bravado she’d managed vanished. Because you were still there. On the other side of the screen. Months of silence. Months of trying to forget you. And now she’d broken it over one stupid photograph because she’d had a few drinks and missed the way you used to look at her.

Zahra approached more slowly this time. “Don’t.”

Delaney swallowed. “Don’t what?”

“Do that thing where you convince yourself you have to answer immediately.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

Delaney stared at your name. “I’m not.”

a moment of silence passed between them.

“Good.” She opened the message anyway.

Zahra groaned. “I fucking hate you.”

“Shh.” Delaney read whatever you’d sent. Once. Twice. Her lips parted. Months ago, she’d known exactly how to talk to you. There had been no hesitation. No carefully selected words. No wondering whether responding too quickly meant something. Now even the blinking cursor felt dangerous. Delaney sat on the edge of her bed. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted that too.

Zahra hovered behind her. “If you send ‘I miss you,’ I’m throwing your phone out the window.”

“I’m not going to say I miss them.” Delaney paused. Then, with considerably less conviction, she said: “That’s pathetic.”

“Correct.”

“And I don’t.”

Zahra wisely said nothing.

Delaney glared at the screen. Fine. If she’d already humiliated herself, she could at least commit. Her fingers moved.

Delaney: `don’t make this weird’

Send.

She immediately typed another.

Delaney: i just looked cute

Send.

Zahra leaned over her shoulder. “Oh, that’s somehow worse.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Delaney’s phone buzzed again. Her breath caught. She read your response. And despite every promise she’d made to herself, despite the cheating, despite the breakup, despite months spent learning how to exist without you, Delaney smiled. Tiny. Automatic. Gone almost immediately. Zahra saw it.* “Oh, we’re fucked.”

“We’re not anything.” Delaney pulled her knees against her chest, phone balanced against them. Another message from you appeared. Her stomach flipped. She bit the inside of her cheek.

There were rules to breaking up with someone. Delaney Croft had learned this through extensive research. By “research,” she meant several months of heartbreak, three embarrassingly specific Google searches at two in the morning, one self-help book Zahra bought her as a joke that turned out to be annoyingly useful, and approximately four hundred TikToks created by women speaking directly into their front-facing cameras while applying skincare. Still. Research was research. And according to Delaney’s findings, the rules were relatively simple.

Rule one: block them.

Done.

Rule two: delete their pictures.

Mostly done.

Rule three: return their belongings.

Done. Except one hoodie. Which didn’t count because she’d had it for so long it had legally become hers. Probably.

Rule four: don’t ask mutual friends about them.

Delaney hadn’t. Recently.

Rule five: absolutely, under no circumstances, stalk their social media.

She didn’t. There were websites for viewing public Instagram stories anonymously. That was completely different.

And rule six, the most important rule of all Do not fucking text your ex. Ever. Especially if that ex was you.

Because Delaney knew herself. She knew exactly what would happen if she reopened that particular door. There were people who could remain friends with their exes. Mature, emotionally evolved people who could exchange birthday messages and occasionally get coffee and hear about somebody new without contemplating murder. Delaney was not one of those people. Not with you. There had never been anything casual about the two of you. Not the beginning. Not the relationship. Definitely not the ending.

You had been Ravenwood’s beautiful fucking cautionary tale long before Delaney ever kissed you. Popular. Charming. Desired. And very, very accustomed to not belonging to anybody for long. Delaney had known. Everybody had made sure she knew. Zahra, especially. Then you dated her. Actually dated her. And somewhere between late nights in Delaney’s dorm, afternoons disappearing into Bellweather, studying together when neither of you accomplished much studying, and the hundreds of tiny domestic moments nobody else had been there to witness, Delaney made the fatal mistake of thinking perhaps reputation wasn’t destiny. Perhaps people could change. Perhaps you had.

Then you cheated. Delaney learned several things afterward. Heartbreak made her mean. Zahra could fit a genuinely concerning number of insults into a single uninterrupted sentence. It was possible to simultaneously want someone back and hope they stepped on a Lego every morning for the rest of their natural life. And love did not disappear just because somebody had given you an excellent reason to stop loving them. That last lesson was Delaney’s least favorite.

Months later, she was better. Not healed. She hated that word. People talked about healing like eventually she’d emerge from some emotional cocoon and become a serene blonde woman who drank green juice and thanked the universe for teaching her a lesson. Fuck that. You hurt her. There was no gratitude required. But she was better. She could walk across Ravenwood’s Quad without wondering whether every familiar silhouette was you. She could hear your name. She could visit places you’d gone together. She could spend an entire day without thinking about you. Sometimes two. Three, once. That had been a particularly good week. She had even unblocked your number. Not because she wanted you to contact her. Obviously. It was symbolic. Keeping somebody blocked required intention. It meant she was still actively preventing you from reaching her, and Delaney didn’t want to dedicate that much energy to you anymore.

So, she’d unblocked you. Then stared at your contact for seven minutes. Then thrown her phone onto her bed like it had bitten her. Growth wasn’t linear. Which brought Delaney to tonight. Zahra approached with her hand out. “I’m taking your phone.”

Delaney hugged it against her chest. That small metal object with its Tiffany blue phone case was her lifeline. “No.”

“Give it”, Zahra instructed, flexing her fingers.

Delaney looked offended, hugging it tighter. “It’s my phone.”

“And you’re drunk”, Zahra scoffed.

“I’m tipsy”, *Delaney corrected, as if that made it any better. (It absolutely didn’t.)

Zahra rolled her eyes..“You just spent five minutes explaining why penguins probably have best friends.”

“They do!”, Delaney exclaimed.

“I’m sure they do.” Zahra extended her hand again. “Phone.”

Delaney narrowed her eyes. Zahra stared back. The dorm room around them had become the aftermath of what was supposed to be a quiet girls’ night. An open pizza box sat on the floor. A half-finished bottle occupied Delaney’s desk beside textbooks neither of them had touched. Music played quietly from Zahra’s laptop, and some terrible reality show continued muted on the television because they’d gotten distracted arguing over whether one contestant’s boyfriend was cheating. He was. Delaney could tell. She had experience. Unfortunately.

“You’re controlling”, Delaney informed her.

“And you’re one glass away from deciding you need closure.” Zahra grinned. “Believe me, I’ve been there. It’s not worth it.”

“I have closure.” (No she didn’t.)

Zahra crossed her arms, giving Delaney a pointed look. “You have seventeen pictures of your ex in a hidden album.”

Delaney gasped. “Why do you know that?”

“Because you told me twenty minutes ago.”

Oh. Delaney considered this. “Well, that’s invasive.”

Zahra’s eyes closed. Her patience was clearly waning. “You invaded yourself.”

Delaney took another sip. “Slut.”

“Love you too”, Zahra said, not at all offended.

For a while, everything remained safe. They watched television. They ate. Delaney laughed until her stomach hurt when Zahra did an impression of one of their professors. The alcohol softened everything pleasantly around the edges. That was the dangerous part - Because eventually Zahra left. Not permanently. She was going down the hall. Maybe to the bathroom. Maybe to find something. Delaney hadn’t really listened. What mattered was that Zahra made one catastrophic mistake. She left Delaney Croft alone. With her phone. Delaney lasted approximately forty seconds.

It started innocently. Instagram. Nothing suspicious about Instagram. She watched two stories. Liked a picture. Scrolled. Saw a Ravenwood meme. Sent it to Zahra despite Zahra being approximately thirty feet away. Scrolled again. And then Delaney’s thumb stopped. There you were. Not literally.Worse. A mutual friend’s post. Group picture. And there you were, somewhere amongst them. Delaney stared. She should’ve scrolled. She knew she should’ve scrolled. Instead, two fingers touched the screen. Zoom. “Oh, fuck you.”

You looked good. Of course you did. Apparently karma had lost Delaney’s forwarding address. She stared at your face longer than she should have. Something uncomfortable shifted inside her. Not quite sadness. Not quite anger. Something softer. Something alcohol had made considerably harder to shove back into whatever locked room she’d been keeping it in. Delaney missed you. There. Fine. She could admit it. Privately. While tipsy. To nobody.

She missed you. She missed talking to you. Missed your attention. Missed knowing things about you nobody else did. Missed being known by you. Missed the stupid little habits she’d once complained about. Missed being able to send you something at midnight because it reminded her of you. Missed the way you looked at her. That one was particularly annoying. Delaney closed Instagram. Opened her camera. Why? No reason... No reason at all.

She checked herself. Her hair was messy from spending the evening sprawled around her room. Her cheeks were warm from alcohol, freckles scattered across flushed skin, lips still glossy because she’d reapplied lip balm approximately six times. Cute. She looked cute. Delaney tilted her head. Snap. She examined it. No. Again.* Snap. Better. She shifted, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. Snap. Oh. That one. Delaney stared at herself. Then an absolutely terrible thought entered her mind. She wondered what you would think.

No. Nope. Absolutely fucking not. Delaney lowered her phone. Then raised it again. Opened her messages. Your conversation was buried. She searched your name. There. Delaney stared at it. Months. Months of silence sat beneath your name. Her stomach fluttered.

“I’m not texting you.” She announced this aloud. Very firmly. Then she opened the conversation. The last messages hurt. Delaney immediately scrolled away from them. Her thumb hovered.She could type something.

No. What would she even say? Hi, remember when you emotionally devastated me? Anyway, wyd?

Pathetic. She could send a meme. Worse. She could—

The photograph icon sat innocently beside the text box. Delaney looked at it. Looked away. Looked back. “No.”

Her thumb tapped it. The selfie appeared. “No.”

She selected it. The preview filled the screen. Her finger hovered over send. This was humiliating. This was beneath her. This was exactly why Zahra had tried to confiscate her phone. Delaney could already hear tomorrow morning. What the fuck is wrong with you, Delaney? Plenty. Apparently. Her thumb moved.

Sent.

Delaney froze. The picture appeared in the conversation.

Delivered.

For approximately three seconds, her brain ceased functioning. Then, she shrieked. Loudly. “Oh my fucking God.”

Delaney shot upright. No. No no no no no. Her thumb stabbed at the screen. Could she unsend it? Of course she could. She should. Immediately. Before you saw it. Delaney pressed down on the message. The option appeared. Unsend. Her finger hovered. And hovered. And hovered. Because somewhere beneath the panic and alcohol and wounded pride was the awful truth. She wanted you to see it. Fuck.

Delaney dropped backward against her pillows. Her phone landed against her chest. She stared at the ceiling. “I’m an idiot.”

.