Chapter 20: A Decision to Make

The house is silent, like all the noise from the weekend had been sucked away at once. Lying on my bed, I let my thoughts consume me. Every single moment with Emma replays in my head, over and over again.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand. I reach for it, expecting some random notification, but it’s a message from Emmy. Just seeing her name sends a familiar warmth through me. When I open it, I find a long block of text.

Emmy (message): “ Hey ... It feels weird texting you after two days of silence. You know I care about you a lot, and I’m sure you’ve guessed by now that I missed our conversations. But this weekend made me realize just how much. It’s hard to explain, but not being able to talk to you left this empty space. I think I’ve gotten too used to you, to the way we talk. And now that I can message you again, I see just how much I missed it. I probably sound crazy saying all this, but I just needed you to know. Did you think about it too? Or am I just overreacting?” I reread the message a few times, trying to take in every word. She’s so honest, so direct, and it throws me off. It gets to me, makes me feel something—maybe even flattered.

But at the same time, that familiar unease creeps back in. The one I can never quite shake.

Because I know who she is.

And she doesn’t.

I run a hand over my face, trying to figure out what to say. Part of me wants to be as honest as she is, but another part knows I have to be careful. Finally, I take a deep breath and start typing.

Me (message): “Hey ... I won’t lie, it feels good to talk to you again too. I did think about you, yeah. You’re not exaggerating at all, and I’m glad you’re here. It’s weird, but it’s like everything feels normal again now that we can talk.” I sit there for a few seconds before finally hitting send. My heart beats a little too fast for my liking. The message goes through, and I set my phone down on my chest.

A few seconds later, my phone vibrates again. She already answered.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I unlock the screen.

Emmy (message): “It makes me feel better too. Honestly, I feel kind of stupid for being so affected by just two days without talking. But I guess you’re used to me being weird by now.” I chuckle softly. That mix of humor and sincerity—she always has a way of making me smile, no matter what I’m feeling. I quickly type back.

Me (message): “Come on, you’re not weird. We’ve just got our habits, it makes sense that you’d miss it. I did too, by the way.” Her reply comes almost instantly.

Emmy (message): “Okay, now you’re making me blush ... And seriously, you’re always too perfect with your answers. Don’t you ever think I’m annoying?” Me (message): “Never. But if I ever do, I promise I’ll tell you.” The conversation quickly slips back into our usual rhythm, as if those two days of silence had never happened. We talk about everything and nothing—what we did over the weekend, random thoughts that pop into our heads, the dumb jokes we always throw at each other.

With her, I can say anything—without thinking. No filter, no barriers. It’s so different from talking to Emma face-to-face. Here, I’m just me. Completely. And it’s so easy that I almost forget the truth.

The hours slip by without us even noticing.

Emmy (message): “Do you think we talk too much? Like, you won’t be mad if I steal your whole evening, right?” Me (message): “And you won’t be mad if I say I kind of like you stealing it?” She replies with a shy emoji, then jumps into a lighthearted story. I laugh again, and we keep going, jumping from one topic to the next. Like nothing else exists.

At some point, I glance at the time: 2:47 AM.

Fuck.

We’ve been talking for hours, and yet, neither of us wants to stop.

Emmy (message): “I should let you sleep ... Even though I don’t want to. Feels like I could keep talking to you forever.” Me (message): “Same. But apparently, sleep is important. Talk tomorrow?” Emmy (message): “Promise. Good night, you.” Me (message): “Good night, Emmy.” I set my phone down on the nightstand, a stupid grin still lingering on my face.

But it fades fast.

Reality crashes back in.

It’s not just Emmy.

It’s Emma. My sister.

And I’m a fucking asshole.

The next morning, I drag myself to the kitchen, my eyes still heavy with exhaustion. The night was short—way too short.