The call had ended softly.
No real goodbye—just a pause, a breath, and Kane saying gently, "Get some rest, alright?"
And she had whispered back, "You too," before the line went silent.
But the silence wasn't as heavy now. Not as lonely.
Sammy sat up from her bed, the feeling of her phone still warm on her chest. For the first time in what felt like days, her limbs didn't feel weighed down. She moved without forcing herself. Like she wasn't just moving away.
She entered into the bathroom, turned on the warm light, and started to run the bath. The water streamed steadily, steam curling up into the air. She grabbed the lavender soap she barely used—usually saved for "nicer" nights—and dropped a bit into the water.
She peeled off her hoodie and jeans slowly, watching the tub fill. Her reflection in the mirror stared back. Still quiet. Still unsure. But there was something else there, too. A softness. A kind of being seen.
She slid into the tub and leaned back with a quiet sigh, the heat wrapping around her like a safety net.
She closed her eyes.
In her mind, she replayed it.
The clink of Kane's soda can.
The steady sound of his breathing on the line.
His voice, not teasing or mocking, just… honest.
"You looked like you needed someone today."
"I usually do."
"So do I."
That moment echoed in her chest, again and again, like a small, kind truth that refused to fade.
Sammy ran her fingers gently through the water. The bathroom light hummed. The world outside kept turning—but for once, she didn't feel like she was standing off to the side of it.
Maybe she still wasn't center stage.
But she'd stepped out of the shadows, even just a little.
Maybe she could be more than an observer.
She stayed in the water until her fingers wrinkled, the lavender scent lingering around her. Then she rose, wrapped herself in a towel, and tiptoed back to her room.
The bedsheets felt warmer. Softer.
And as her eyes closed and sleep pulled her under, a thought flickered gently in the back of her mind:
Maybe someone had noticed her, after all.