Ava standing in middle of the hallway, watching students pass her, waits for Henry to come. Upon seeing him-
"Hey," she says, her voice gentle but careful. "I was thinking… instead of picking me up, could you text me the location?"
There was brief pause but he, looking forward to the evening yet confused replies, "is there a problem?"
Keeping her calm, "its nothing bad, I'll be there on time."
After having a brief conversation, they headed toward their respective classes.
(later at the evening)
He arrived early, earlier than he meant to, standing across the street from the restaurant with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The sign above the entrance glowed softly, its letters humming in the evening air. He checked his phone—6:12 p.m. They were supposed to meet at 6:30. Plenty of time.
Still, his heart was already restless.
He crossed the street and stepped inside, greeted by warmth and the low murmur of conversation. The host asked how many, and the word two almost slipped out before he caught himself."Just one," he said instead. "I'm meeting someone."
The host smiled knowingly and led him to a small table near the window.
He sat down, placed his phone beside his plate, and tried to steady his breathing. Outside, the sky was fading into shades of blue and gray, the day slowly letting go. Cars passed. People walked by. Somewhere in the middle of all that motion, he waited.
They had been talking for weeks. Long conversations that spilled past midnight, jokes that built into something familiar, something warm. She had asked about his day. She had remembered details. She had sent voice notes once, laughing softly, and he had replayed them more times than he would ever admit.
Tonight, felt like the natural next step. Real. Solid.
He checked his phone again. No new messages.
6:25.
He imagined her getting ready, glancing at the mirror, deciding whether to wear her hair up or down. Maybe she was nervous too. The thought made him smile.
6:30.
He straightened in his seat. This was it.
Nothing happened.
The door opened. A couple walked in, laughing. He watched them pass his table, his eyes flicking up instinctively, then falling again. He told himself not to overthink. People were late all the time. Life happened.
6:35.
He sent a message.Hey, I'm here
Delivered.
No reply.
He set the phone down carefully, like it might break if he wasn't gentle with it. The waiter approached, menu in hand."Can I get you something to drink while you wait?""Water's fine," he said. "Thank you."
The waiter nodded and left.
He watched the condensation slide down the glass as the water arrived, tracing slow, uneven paths. Everything felt slower now. The minutes stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
6:45.
He refreshed the chat.
Still nothing.
A quiet unease crept into his chest. He tried to reason with it. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she got stuck in traffic. Maybe she was already on her way and would apologize the moment she arrived.
He held onto maybe like a lifeline.
7:00.
He sent another message, shorter this time.Everything okay?
The typing bubble never appeared.
The realization didn't hit all at once. It seeped in gradually, like cold through thin fabric. He scrolled up through their conversations, reading messages that now felt oddly distant. The enthusiasm, the warmth, the way she had once said, I'm excited to finally meet you.
He wondered when things had changed. Or if they ever had.
The restaurant grew busier. Chairs scraped against the floor. Laughter rose and fell around him. A group of friends at the next table toasted to something he didn't hear. Life was happening loudly, insistently, while he sat suspended in a moment that refused to move forward.
7:15.
His phone buzzed.
His heart jumped so hard it almost hurt.
A notification—from an app. Not her.
The disappointment was sharper this time, edged with embarrassment. He felt foolish for reacting so quickly, for letting hope betray him again.
He typed a third message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted that too.
What do you say to someone who is actively choosing not to respond?
He thought about leaving. About standing up, paying for the water, walking out with some fragment of dignity intact. But another part of him stayed rooted to the chair, stubborn and aching.
What if she replies?What if she's just busy?
7:30.
An hour.
The word ghosted surfaced in his mind, unwanted but undeniable. He had heard it before, had even given advice to friends about it. If they don't respond, take the hint.Don't overthink it.
It felt different when it was happening to him.
Ghosting wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was the absence of something that should be there. A silence so complete it made him question everything—his words, his tone, his worth.
He stared at his reflection in the dark window. He looked normal. Put together. Someone you could sit across from, talk to, laugh with. He couldn't see the flaw she must have seen, the reason she decided disappearing was easier than honesty.
7:45.
The waiter returned, concern evident now."Are you ready to order?"He hesitated. "I think… I think I'll just close out."
The waiter nodded gently, as if he had seen this scene play out before.
As he waited for the bill, he checked his phone one last time. Still nothing. The message he sent earlier now read Seen.
That hurt more than the silence.
She had read it. She had chosen not to answer.
He paid and stood up, his movements stiff, mechanical. The chair felt heavier as he pushed it back, like it didn't want to let him go. Or maybe that was just him.
Outside, the night had fully settled. The air was cooler, quieter. Streetlights cast pale halos on the pavement. He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do with himself now that the waiting was over.
He unlocked his phone and typed one final message.
Hey. I'm heading home. Take care.
He stared at it for a long time before pressing send.
No response.
He walked.
With each step, the evening unravelled behind him—the restaurant, the table, the expectations he had carried so carefully. His thoughts replayed every interaction, searching for a moment where things had gone wrong. A joke that fell flat. A message sent too fast. A sign he missed.
Maybe there wasn't one.
Maybe some people leave not because you did something wrong, but because staying would require effort.
By the time he reached his house, the ache had settled into something dull and heavy. He kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of his bed, phone still in his hand.
The screen remained dark.
He realized then that ghosting wasn't just being ignored. It was being erased without explanation, left to fill in the silence with self-doubt. It was the absence of closure, the unanswered why that lingered long after the conversation ended.
He placed the phone face down and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, life would continue. He would wake up, go to class, laugh at jokes, reply to messages from people who stayed. But tonight, belonged to the quiet realization that not everyone who sounds interested intends to show up.
And somewhere between disappointment and acceptance, he let himself feel it all—without pretending it didn't hurt.
As he remember the pain of being ghosted on by someone, he feels the soft and warm breath of Emma lying beside him.