Two years ago, Leo had been that number.
He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He knew the rhythm. The unknown number would belong to someone named Kyle or Brent, someone with a weak chin and a stronger Wi-Fi signal. Someone who collected moments like receipts, then mailed them to strangers for sport.
Now the phone buzzed again.
He stared at the screen, the cheap fluorescent light of his kitchen making the words look greasy. Hate to story. Not "hate to say," or "hate to tell you." Hate to story. Like the act of storytelling itself was the nuisance. The story was the burden.
He sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand. The unknown number had no profile picture. No history. Just that one venomous thread. Someone had tried to write a story about him this time. Someone had needed a villain.
Leo didn’t feel rage. He felt something worse: recognition. He was looking at a mirror, and the mirror was a stranger’s text message.