It's wrong.
But, the fact that it's wrong doesn't mean he stops himself.
-x-
Just after midnight, he finally dropped the phone from his ear, after realizing his calls were being silenced on the other side, and let it slide from his hand to the comforter on the bed with a soft thud. It lit up for a second before quickly fading and leaving only the glow of the moonlight shining in from the open window.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, which was un-gelled and curly and everywhere because he hadn't bothered with putting more in after showering hours earlier. Sitting down on the bed, he finds himself standing back up moments later with a new, sudden, bothersome energy.
He paces back and forth and back and forth until the soft beep of his phone echoes through the room. Unable to not check it, he quickly picks it up from its spot on the bed. He stands still with the small device clutched in his hands, with shoulders hunched, and eyes squinting at the sudden brightness that shines from the screen.
Sorry. Meeting. Goodnight.
He sucks in a sharp breath; one that he feels will choke him. He reads the words again, three times, four times, over and over and over until they become blurred and he realizes he's crying and he can't stop; they fall fast and burn his eyes until he rubs them away harshly with the back of his hand.
Not even an I love you, he thinks, bitterly. Sure, maybe he had become accustomed to those three little words tagging along with every end to a conversation over the past year. Maybe he had begun to take advantage of them. Maybe he didn't deserve them anymore. Maybe-
He stops himself. He takes a deep breath.
In.
Out.
He drops the phone onto the bedside table and lifts the covers of his bed; his body is cold, but he doesn't care tonight. He closes his eyes, hoping to fall asleep soon.
Instead, he tosses and turns for another half hour, before reaching over and grabbing his phone. He lifts the covers above his head and lies on his side, pressing a button and letting the screen light up the small space.
Quickly pressing his fingers over the keyboard, he lets himself start typing one, two, four, seven, twelve, eighteen, twenty, thirty, forty-five words- reading them again before letting his finger hover over the 'send' key.
He stops.
His eyes dart back and forth across the screen, reading again and again and again before he sighs again, letting his face press into the pillow for a second before turning back to the screen to reread his own words.
The words are pleading, but maybe they sound more like whining. He put an I love you at the end but it just looked more and more pathetic, more and more stupidly attached, more and more like a clingy boyfriend rather than the caring one he needed to be- that is, until he deleted each and every single word before his fingers quickly typed another message in its place:
Okay. Goodnight.