A swipe too late, short story, by: Anika Taiwade

 A swipe too late

by: Anika Taiwade

The light above me is flickering, the only bright source of light being my phone screen. There isn’t thunder or lightning, but the soft taps of the droplets on the balcony are loud and clear alongside my heartbeat. 

My notebook is gone. I don’t know when I lost it, or if I left it somewhere on purpose. Maybe it’s buried under my bed, between pages I can’t bear to reread. Maybe I was never meant to find it again.

He posted on his story about twenty-three hours ago. I said my final goodbye about twenty. It is now three AM, and I haven’t put my phone down. I’ve swiped past my friends’ messages. They’re worried. I should sleep. I should put my down. I should be worried, too. Instead, I subconsciously over rmy thumb over his profile again. I can’t write down my feelings. My mind is too restless to make sense of them anyway. 

I think about his mother. How she showered me with love and care when she first met me, made sure I was stuffed to the point where I couldn’t eat again, and how her gaze turned cold and disgusted when one of his “friends” told her how I felt. She saw the way he looked at me, and made a choice in thay instance to tighten her grip onhis future, his life, his choices, and who he can love. 

Finally, I bring myself to click it. 

“If we ever meet again, I’ll return this notebook to you. Thank you, for everything, B”

In a split second, it vanishes. This story is no longer available. I take a breath, my heart beating louder than before. The rain starts to pick up, and I frantically click the profile over and over again. But it’s gone. I set my phone down quietly, holding it to my chest as if it could hold the words I never got to say. I wonder if he hesitated to post that, the same way I hesitated to tell him. His mother would never allow it. She sent him away. But I’m the reason why. 

Not even a notebook holds proof that he was ever here.