It began with a ding—
my phone’s sharp summons.
Eyes darted,
scanning lines,
letters stitching into words.

Word by word,
line after line,
spaces and punctuation
weaving a fragile thread.
My restless eyes raced,
mind paced,
heart pounded—
until the final line
left me suspended.

I read her message once—
never twice.
Fear freezes my fingers,
as if rereading
would unravel her words
into rejection.

A conundrum:
joy shadowed by sorrow,
satisfaction laced with dread,
or escape from love’s
long-festering ache.

I never looked again.
Never deleted.
Her text lives in my pocket,
each word a fragile relic,
cradled close,
etched into my pulse.