Page 5 of Shy Girl

The next morning,my fingers reach for my phone before my eyes fully open, before my lungs expand completely with their first breath. The screen wakes with a small vibration, casting a faint glow in the dim room. Ten new messages.

I sit up abruptly, spine snapping straight as though this is an announcement I must honor.Ten.My heart flutters, light and quick, as I swipe through the notifications. I read the names first, letting each one settle in my mind, savoring the anticipation like peeling back the layers of a perfect fruit.

Each message is proof: that I exist, that someone sees me, that I am more than my diminishing bank balance or the lack of job offers in my inbox. For a brief moment, I allow the warmth of it to flood through me, but it doesn’t last.

Reality creeps back in, messy and unwelcome. The mental list reassembles itself. Today, I need to apply for more jobs. Again. My cover letters have become mechanical, tweaked and polished until

the words feel like they belong to someone else. Five months of unemployment, and my savings account is a wasteland, the

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numbers dwindling as the days stretch forward with no relief. My rent is now three days overdue.

I exhale slowly, setting the phone down, its screen facing up, the messages lingering on the edge of my vision. In the kitchen, I begin

my breakfast routine. The oatmeal is measured: one-third of a cup of oats, water poured to the exact line on the measuring cup. No milk. Eight blueberries are added one at a time, pressed gently into place with the back of my spoon, forming a perfect circle around the edge of the bowl. Symmetry makes it taste better. I’ve convinced myself of this.

The ritual grounds me, the steps calming in their predictability. The world outside may be chaos, but my blueberries are always symmetrical.

After eating, I return to the phone. My thumb hovers for a moment before scrolling, rereading the messages, prolonging the moment of being wanted. At the bottom, Nathan’s name stands out, his reply almost instant after mine last night.

Are you available thishis afternoon for a quick meet by any chance? I know it’s last minute, so feel free to say no, I understand. lol.

I read it three times. Four. Each pass sends a small jolt through me, a pulse of something unfamiliar—excitement, or maybe panic. The tone is careful, considerate. The “lol” softens the words, makes them feel less like a request and more like an invitation.

My fingers move faster than my thoughts.YESDI type, hitting send without hesitation.

The screen confirms it, the message sliding into the thread, and I see my mistake. The caps. The garbled letters. Wrong. Imperfect.

MIA BALLARD22

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“Fuck!” The word escapes me, sharp and loud in the quiet of the apartment. My chest tightens, a familiar knot forming beneath my ribs as I type again, this time steadying my fingers with sheer will.

Sorry, dropped my phone and accidentally hit send. I meant to say yes, I’m available this afternoon to have a cup of coffee with you.

I hit send and stare at the screen, watching the words leave me again, hoping this time they are enough.

The phone buzzes again almost immediately, a tiny pulse of life on the kitchen counter. It’s my father, and the screen lights up with the same flat, gray attempt at connection he’s been sending for years.Hey, Gia. Hope you’re doing okay. Let me know if you need anything.

His words are antiseptic, sanitized, like wiping a bloody wound with a dry rag. I swipe the notification away without reading it twice. His name disappears, but the weight of it lingers, settling somewhere deep. He’s been doing this forever, these little empty gestures dropped like crumbs on a trail he never plans to follow. And I used to eat them, thinking if I just gathered enough, they’d lead me somewhere that felt whole.

The last time I contacted him I was in the hospital four years ago, barely holding myself together. I don’t mean that figuratively. I mean my body was shutting down, my insides clawing at me, fever rolling through me like waves in a storm. It started with this guy I met in college. His name doesn’t matter because I hate him. He was the kind of guy who loved telling esoteric jokes and thought that made him deep. He loved pretentious films and dropping big words when not needed. He was extremely smart, and he was extremely dumb. He had atongue ring, cheap and shiny, a prop in his performance of being different.

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He went down on me often, said it made him feel “generous,” like that was some kind of personality trait. The metal felt cold and strange, but I let him do it because it made him easy to deal with afterward. I didn’t know the ring was flaking, tiny shards embedding themselves in me like splinters in wood, until my body rebelled. The fever came first, then the pain, deep and sharp, like something was trying to carve its way out of me.

I dragged myself to the ER, sweat slicking my back, my head light and buzzing. The nurse took one look at me and called for a wheelchair. Inside, they hooked me up to fluids, poked and prodded, the air around me full of whispers and sharp questions

that were embarrassing to answer. I was too far gone to care about dignity. When they asked if there was someone they could call, my brain went blank for a moment before his name tumbled out, unbidden.

Even as I said my father’s name, I felt stupid. But there was this tiny, trembling part of me that still believed in him. I pictured him bursting through the hospital doors, his face flushed with panic, his arms ready to hold me, his only child. I imagined him sober for once, smelling of aftershave and worry, his voice cracking as he said,I’m here, Gia. I’m here.

Instead, he didn’t even answer the phone. I lay there, hooked up to machines that beeped softly in the dark, while the nurse adjusted my IV and asked if there was anyone else she could call. It was two days later, after they’d scraped the infection out of me and left my vagina raw, when finally, his voicemail came. His voice was thick, sluggish, dripping with whiskey. “Sorry, kiddo,” he slurred. “Got caught up. Hope you’re feeling better.”

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