Julia spent the whole night tossing and turning in bed.
Every time she drifted close to sleep, she reached for her phone again.

“Why aren’t you answering me…?” she whispered, her thoughts curling into darker shapes.

From 8:32 p.m. until five in the morning, she sent him messages every half hour.
At first angry; then confused; and finally, with a growing ache that hollowed her out.

“Lucian, if you don’t answer me tomorrow I’m coming to your place, just so you know.
I don’t care if you’ve got exams. Hmph.”

“Actually, I don’t care if you answer or not. Tomorrow I’m coming to see you in person, because I don’t know what your deal is — you didn’t even say goodnight.”

“Please, when you can… just say something.”

Julia’s messages floated through the night — drifting like bottles cast into the sea —
each one swallowed by the same silent, sepulchral tide: her boyfriend’s absence.

By midmorning, as she dressed for class, she’d already sent ten voice notes, called him three times, and fired off thirty-eight messages.
Fifteen of them she deleted — ashamed, yet unable to stop.

On the bus to campus, she tried to disconnect, scrolling through TikTok videos.
But that cruel, cursed algorithm refused to let her escape:
every four and a half videos, another smiling couple — the mockery of love, algorithmically precise.

“Maybe now he’ll pick up,” she muttered, tapping her thumbnail against the phone as the call rang on and on.
“He should be awake by now…”

“The number you’ve dialed, six-two-two-one-six…”
— the robotic voice of the voicemail cut through.

“Damn it!” she snapped, loud enough to earn a few glances from the other passengers.
No one asked if she was okay.
They all retreated to their screens again —
a silent choreography of emotional distance, pretending not to hear the girl breaking down in the back of the bus.

Calm down, Juli. He’s not like that. Lucian’s a good guy. He probably just left his phone at home.
That was what she told herself.

By the end of class, she couldn’t take it anymore. She dragged Tatiana to the student residences.
Julia had long ago befriended the concierge — he let her in without question.

“This is the door…” Julia said, staring at the rectangular frame as if her gaze could melt through it.
She hesitated before voicing the thought that had been gnawing at her — because every time she said it out loud, things got worse.
“What if he’s with someone else?”

“Then knock, and we’ll find out,” Tatiana said, already exhausted by the drama.
“And if he is with someone else, we’ll knock their heads together — his for being an idiot, hers for being a bitch.”

“I don’t think I could fight anyone… I’m like, half a meter tall.”

“Small girls are the worst when they snap. You just have to let the fury take over.”

“Tati… I don’t have the strength to fight anyone. Look at me,” Julia stammered, trembling like a leaf. Her chest rose too high, then deflated too fast, her breath whistling out through her nose. “I can’t do this alone. Confrontations kill me.”

“Juli, you’re going to be fine. Come on. Give me your hand.”

Tatiana knocked three times — each one louder than the last — holding Julia’s shaking hand in her own.

“I’m coming!”
A man’s voice, from the other side.

The sound of three locks turning, one after another.
Then the door opened — and standing there was a blond guy with green eyes.

He wore a Lakers cap, loose shorts, and a basketball jersey that matched his eyes.
One arm rested lazily on the doorframe, tugging the strap of his shirt enough to reveal a glimpse of his chest.
His hair was a mess; his eyelids heavy, as if he’d just woken up.

“Hey…? What are you doing here, Julia?” he asked, his voice deep and still half-asleep.