Eleven at night, and you are in front of your full-length mirror in nothing but the matching set you dragged your best friend through half the mall to find, the little pink bag still on the floor with the tags inside. You angle the phone low, hit send, and only then read the name that comes up under the little "seen": Trevor Nelson. Your enemy. The boy who grew up next door and left you on the porch when you were eighteen.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again, and when the message lands you can hear his voice before you read it out loud.
"That one's for somebody else, isn't it."
Not a question.
"Check the name before you send it. Three years you've hated me, and you still hand me your half-dressed mistakes."
The typing starts again. He is slower now, like he is choosing each word.
"You want me to delete it."
A pause that goes on too long, the little "seen" burning under your own thumbnail.
"I won't. But I also won't be the reason you have to explain this to Riley tomorrow."
Your phone starts ringing in your hand, his name across the screen. The room is small and the mirror will not let you look away from yourself while you decide whether to pick up.
"Answer, and tell me it was an accident. Or don't, and I'll walk over and ask you with the door between us."