When I got to the restaurant, I didn't bother ordering anything. I just slid into the booth where Oliver and I had sat before and waited. My thoughts were loud—buzzing with Father John's words, Darren's messages, the strange account I found. Everything felt like it was spiraling.
Saavni arrived a few minutes later, sweeping into the booth with her usual casual elegance. She wore a black sundress, her brown skin glowing like she'd been kissed by sunlight even on a clouded day.
She smiled brightly. "Sinclair. You look tired."
"Didn't sleep," I said.
"That's becoming a pattern with you."
I managed a weak smile as she waved the waiter over.
She did most of the talking—about the funeral, about Oliver, about how strange it felt to be back. I just nodded, my eyes drifting to my phone.
A message from Oliver lit up the screen.
OLIVER: Has she arrived?
I typed back:
Yeah. Just sat.
Then, almost out of muscle memory, I opened the cnKt app.
I logged into Darren's account again.
Refreshed his messages.
My thumb hovered over the screen—and then I saw it.
The mysterious user: Rvtag.
They were typing.
My heart stuttered.
A gray bubble blinked on and off. Typing. Typing. Then— Gone.
The icon vanished.
"Sinclair?" Saavni tapped the table. "Earth to Sinclair?"
I looked up quickly. "Sorry."
She raised a brow. "You ordering something, or are we just playing who-starves-first?"
I blinked again, forcing myself to refocus. "Sorry. I'll have the special," I told the waiter.
He scribbled it down and left, and I glanced back at my phone.
The screen was still. Silent.
No "typing" indicator.
No message.
Nothing.
Just the reminder of that brief moment—the proof someone was there, someone was still watching, waiting, responding.
And now they were gone.
Again.
They hadn't replied to my message as well.
The waiter sets our plates down with a quiet clink. His movementsareprecise, almostrehearsed, andhenodspolitely before stepping away. The aroma hits first—rich garlic, slowcooked tomatoes, buttered steak. I glance at Saavni, and just as I expect, she's already picking up her phone. I didn't forget how she takes permission to take photos of the meals first before we dig in during office dinner.
"Don't touch yours yet," she says without looking at me, her phone angled above her spaghetti like she's about to shoot a Vogue cover.
I smiled and rest my chin on my hand. "Wouldn't dream of
it."
She snaps a few pictures, then mumbles, "The lighting's trash but whatever," and finally sets her phone down.
I wait until her fingers are no longer hovering above the plate before I reach out—not for my steak, but for her spaghetti. I twirl a forkful and take a bite like it's mine.
"Really?" she raises an eyebrow, watching me chew.
"You took too long," I say, shrugging. "Food doesn't wait."
She laughs, soft and low, and then goes quiet for a second. "You okay?"
I glance at her, then back at my plate. "Yeah."
"You seem distant."
There's a pause. I chew slower. "I'm fine."