The phone slipped from Elias's grasp, tumbling onto the hardwood floor with a soft thud. He stared at it, the screen displaying the dreaded message he'd just sent. To his mother. He'd meant to text Sarah, his girlfriend, but his thumbs were clumsy tonight. The words – a confession of the morning’s argument – now sat in his mother’s inbox. He wanted to scoop up the phone and hurl it across the room. Instead, he just knelt and retrieved it, his fingers tracing the cold glass.
He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. This was a disaster. He imagined her response – the disappointment in her voice, the questions, the lectures. He felt a wave of heat wash over him, making the skin on his face prickle. He needed a drink, a very strong drink. His chest felt constricted, as if an invisible band was tightening around it. He considered calling Sarah to apologize preemptively, but the thought of opening his mouth and forming words felt impossible.
The silence of the apartment pressed in on him. He felt as if every breath was a tremendous effort. He stood, pacing in front of the window, staring out at the empty street. He felt off-kilter, unsteady on his feet. He glanced at the phone again. Still no reply. The anticipation was worse than the act itself.