Van paced the narrow strip of linoleum in his apartment, the kind of place where the fridge hummed like it was auditioning for a horror movie and the single window overlooked a fire escape slick with evening rain. It was 2026, and he was seventeen, which meant he spent most nights like this: scrolling, waiting, dissecting the absence of notifications. Chloe hadn't texted back since yesterday. They'd been at the park, the one with the overgrown weeds pushing through the chain-link, and she'd leaned into him while they watched some drone delivery zip overhead. Her laugh had been sharp, real, not the filtered kind from stories. Now nothing. He checked his phone again—8:47 p.m.—the screen glowing accusatory blue. What if she'd decided he was boring? What if the brush of her knee against his had been accidental, a glitch in the algorithm of their maybe-something?

He stopped pacing, ran a hand through his hair, which was too long now, curling at the nape like it had a mind of its own. The apartment smelled of instant noodles and the faint, stale weed from the guy downstairs. He thought about texting her first—Hey, you good?—but that was desperate, wasn't it? In texts, you could craft it perfect, delete the awkward parts. Calls were different. Calls didn't exist anymore, not for people like them. Everything was pings, vibrations in your pocket, words you could reread until they lost meaning.

Then it rang.

Not a buzz, not the soft chime of a message. A full ring, insistent, slicing through the quiet like an alarm from another era. The phone lit up on the counter, Chloe's name flashing in block letters. His stomach dropped, a cold twist that made his knees buckle slightly. He stared at it, the trill looping—once, twice. Nobody called. Not friends, not crushes. Texts were safe, deniable. Calls meant urgency, or intimacy, or mistake. His heart hammered against his ribs, loud enough to drown the ring. What the fuck? Was someone dying? Had she butt-dialed? No, her face was there, smiling from some profile pic he'd screenshotted once by accident.

Panic bloomed in his chest, hot and formless. He paced again, two steps left, two right, phone clutched like it might explode. Answer it? Ignore? But ignoring Chloe—that was suicide. His thumb hovered, slick with sweat. What did you even say? "Hello?" Sounded formal, like a grandpa. "Sup?" Too casual, what if she was crying? He remembered movies from the 2000s his dad forced him to watch, people picking up with this easy confidence: "Yeah?" But that was scripted. Real life didn't have retakes. The ring cut off, voicemail kicking in—his own voice, recorded months ago, flat and unfamiliar: "Leave a message or text, whatever." He exhaled, shaky. She'd think he was avoiding her. Fuck.

It rang again. Third time. His hands trembled as he swiped. The screen went green, her voice filling the space before he could think.

"Van?"

"Uh—hey. Chloe." His voice cracked, too high, like he was thirteen again. He pressed the phone to his ear harder, as if it could hide the shake. The apartment felt smaller, the walls pressing in. What now? Silence stretched, her breathing soft on the line. He could picture her: dark hair loose, sitting cross-legged on her bed in that oversized hoodie, the one with the frayed cuffs.

"You there?" she said, light, teasing almost.

"Yeah. Sorry. Just—didn't expect a call." He paced again, barefoot on cold floor, glancing at the unmade bed, the charging cord tangled like veins. Expect? Stupid word. No one expected calls. What was the etiquette? Did you ask how she was? Make a joke? His mind blanked, a white-noise panic. Say something normal. "Everything okay?"

She laughed, short and breathy. "Yeah, fine. I just—wanted to hear your voice. Texts are shit for this."

Hear his voice. The words landed like a punch, warm and terrifying. He stopped pacing, leaned against the counter, the edge digging into his hip. What did that mean? Flirting? Or pity? His throat tightened. "Oh. Cool. Yeah." Brilliant. He sounded like an idiot, words bumping into each other. In texts he could emoji it away, but here it hung, naked. He pictured her rolling her eyes, deciding he was lame.

"You at the park yesterday," she said, pausing like she was choosing words. "That was fun. We should do it again."

"Yeah?" His pulse roared. Fun. Again. But the silence after felt endless, his turn, and nothing came. What if he rambled? What if he said too much, like how he'd replayed her laugh in his head all day, how her hand on his arm had burned through his jacket? Too much. Too soon. "I mean, yeah. Totally."

Another pause. He heard traffic in her background, maybe she was walking. Walking and calling him. In 2026. Who did that? His free hand clenched, nails biting palm. Was this a test? Did he sound engaged enough? He forced a breath. "What're you up to?"

"Just wandering. Thinking about you." Casual, like it was nothing.

His knees went weak. Thinking about you. The words echoed, too big for the tiny apartment. He slid down the cabinet to the floor, phone cord stretching. Terror mixed with something electric, fear that he'd fuck it up right here, with the wrong syllable. "Same," he managed. Lie or truth? Both.

They talked like that for minutes that felt like hours—sparse words, long gaps