Deleted. Too dramatic.

Thank you for unblocking me.

I slept with the music box on my chest for two weeks after you left. It doesn’t play anymore. The spring broke. But I kept it because it still smelled like your room—like vanilla and old paper.

Then why bring it back now?

Now she typed the only true thing: I unblocked you. Not sure why. Goodnight.

She watched him through the glass. He didn’t wave. Didn’t stand up. Just sat there, head bowed, waiting.

She looked at the message for a long time. Then she put the phone down, leaned her head on his shoulder, and for the first time in months, she didn’t think about blocking or unblocking or settings or screens.