WRONG NUMBER | NIKI

3 - Gravity Has Favorites

HANA'S POV

Sleep and I spend the entire night deliberately avoiding each other. Every time I close my eyes, my brain generously replays every questionable decision I've made in the last twenty-four hours with cinematic quality and surround sound. 

By three in the morning, I've imagined at least forty-seven different identities for the stranger, ranging from someone who immediately forgot about me to a criminal mastermind whose life's mission has suddenly become exposing one extremely unfortunate girl with terrible typing accuracy. None of the scenarios are remotely realistic. Anxiety, however, has never once applied for a position in the Department of Logic.

Morning arrives anyway, golden sunlight slipping through the gaps in my curtains as though the universe expects me to function like a normal human being after approximately three hours of sleep. I drag myself out of bed, mechanically buttoning my navy blazer while staring at my reflection with the vacant expression of someone preparing for battle rather than another Tuesday. My eyes carry faint shadows beneath them, subtle enough that nobody else would notice but obvious enough for me to recognize immediately. 

"You look fantastic," I tell the mirror flatly. "Like someone who definitely hasn't mentally rehearsed being publicly humiliated before first period." My reflection, incredibly, offers no encouragement whatsoever.

The drive to school feels significantly shorter than usual, which I consider deeply offensive because I would've appreciated another hour to emotionally prepare for existing in public. My phone rests beside me on the leather seat, painfully silent despite the embarrassing number of times I've checked it since waking up. 

No new messages. No mysterious good mornings. No sarcastic comments. Nothing. Somehow, his silence unsettles me almost as much as his replies had last night, because now my imagination has unlimited space to fill in the blanks.

Maybe he blocked me. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he finally came to his senses and decided talking to anonymous disasters wasn't worth the effort. Or maybe he's already at school. The thought lands with enough force to make my stomach tighten.

The school is already alive by the time I step through the front gates, students weaving across the pathways with bread in hand and backpacks hanging lazily from one shoulder. Conversations overlap into one endless current of laughter, complaints about assignments, exams, and homeroom teachers who are unsufferable. 

Normally, I like mornings here. There's something comforting about watching everyone begin their day at the same time, each person carrying problems completely invisible to everyone else. Today, however, every unfamiliar face feels like a potential suspect.

I catch myself studying people. A boy laughing near the vending machines. Not him. Someone texting while crossing the courtyard. Maybe him. A senior walking toward the building with headphones around his neck. Definitely... maybe?

"This is unhealthy," I mutter under my breath. 

A girl walking past gives me a concerned look. I pretend I was talking to my phone. By the time I reach the main building, I've managed to convince myself that every second student is secretly the stranger, which is statistically impossible and yet emotionally persuasive. I climb the stairs toward my class while checking my phone one more time, hoping for... I don't even know what anymore. Closure, maybe. Confirmation that last night wasn't some bizarre fever dream. The lock screen remains stubbornly empty.

No messages. I should be relieved. Instead, disappointment pricks somewhere beneath my ribs before I can stop it.

"Oh, you've actually lost your mind," I whisper to myself. "Yesterday you wanted to disappear forever. Today you're disappointed a stranger isn't texting you. Incredible character development."