The phone slipped from my hands before I even realized what I had done. It struck the old tile floor with a sharp crack that echoed through our tiny apartment, a sound far too loud for the quiet hour of the night. The echo lingered, bouncing off stained walls and chipped cabinets, like a warning bell I couldn’t silence. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the phone lying face down near the table leg that never quite touched the floor. When I picked it up, the screen was cracked but still glowing, unforgivingly bright in the dim kitchen light.
My reflection stared back at me—wide eyes, tight mouth, a face too serious, too tired, too old for a twelve-year-old girl. The words on the screen pulsed slowly, cruelly: “Sending…” then “Delivered.” Two check marks appeared beneath the message. I hadn’t meant to send it yet. I hadn’t even read it one last time. My heart began to pound so hard I thought it might wake the neighbors. In my arms, my baby brother shifted, his small body tensing before he let out a cry that pierced straight through my chest.
