The message came just after eight.
Halfway through brushing my teeth, my phone buzzed against the bathroom counter, and I saw his name light up the screen. For a second, my hands froze mid-motion, the toothbrush forgotten.
I rinsed quickly, fumbled for the phone, and unlocked it.
I'm OK. Please don't worry.
I stared at the words for too long.
They were exactly the kind of message someone sends when they know you're already worried. When they want to say something without really saying it. When they're trying to buy time, or deflect, or soften something sharp.
He hadn't replied to the first text. Or the second. Not even the voicemail.
Now this—short, vague and unconvincing.
I read it again. Then again.
Not great. Not fine. Just… OK.
And the please don't worry—I could practically hear him saying it, in that worn-out tone he used when something was wrong but he didn't want to cause a fuss. He hated fuss.
I hit "call" before I could talk myself out of it.
