Girlfriend
She sat at her dull green oak desk, staring at piles of papers. The papers were important, but at the moment, not nearly as important as the thoughts running through her head. It’s been three and a half months. It’s getting to be too much, things are dying, if not already dead. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. She loved this boy with all her heart. His tall, lanky figure, his chestnut hair that felt perfect when she ran her fingers through it, his hazel eyes with a dash of emerald. A c***tail of love and tension burned in the pit of her stomach, eating her up. It was time for her to stop living in denial and get the truth.
Click, clack, click, clack.
Backspace, backspace.
Click, clack.
Proofread.
Send.
She twiddled her thumbs, staring emptily at the chipped red polish that coated her nails and the cold chunk of technology that sat under her eyes, the little metal box that would determine her fate. The basement was hollow, the sound of her own unsteady breath filling all the empty space. The oak desk seemed to scream out, scolding her for sending that text message, telling her to keep thinking that everything is okay, to keep believing that you two were going to stay together all through high school.
Thirty minutes of her stomach doing flips, her heart beating, and just looking. She looked down again at the scattered papers that lied beneath the cell phone, thoughts swarming her mind like a nest of angry bees. Maybe he’s say everything is okay. Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe I’m just trapped in a twisted dream and I’m going to wake up. But this was no dream. The phone sat soundless and still. It seemed as if the phone had hands, grabbing onto her shoulders, shaking her senseless but holding her firmly in place at the same time.
Buzz.
She reached a tentative hand out, pulling her destiny into her frozen palm. The response was simple, yet so much more complicated. Fifteen characters placed an infinite number of anxiety into her clouded mind.
Can I call you?

Boyfriend
He sat in the chatter-filled auditorium, surrounded by the faces of his best friends, the people he loved the most. The musical rehearsal droned on, as being an ensemble member wasn't the most exciting role in the world. He leaned back in the starchy, wine-colored seat as meaningless thoughts meandered through his head. What a boring rehearsal. I have so much homework. What can I eat when I get home? The thought of his girlfriend wandered across his attention. Her mocha hair and matching chocolate eyes that harmonized with her sweet nature, her genuine giggles, her old soul that resonated in her boxes of vinyl records that she held so dear. A c***tail of conflict and apathy burned in the pit of his stomach, distracting him from the rehearsal.
Buzz.
He reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone, where one notification lurked. His girlfriend had sent him a lengthy message, ending with a simple statement: are you losing interest?
The time had come. He faked an aura of nonchalance, stepping away from the rehearsal and into the desolate hallway. He remained calm, cool, and collected, while on the inside, his stomach did flips. Each brick on the wall seemed to scream out, scolding him for wanting to break up with her, telling him about how bad he would hurt her, how much of an awful boyfriend he is.
Thirty minutes passed full of slow contemplating, dragging the heels of his red Vans across the floor. He gazed at his phone screen, the cold piece of metal displaying the message that suffused his mind. Maybe she'll be perfectly fine. Maybe this is the best thing for us. Maybe I'll find someone new. Collecting his thoughts and gathering every ounce of courage he could muster up, he swiftly moved his fingers across the pixilated keyboard, typing the last text he would ever send to his girlfriend.
Click, clack, click, clack.
Backspace, backspace.
Click, clack.
Send.
Can I call you?