Chapter 2: Cracked Glass and Stolen Numbers
He blinked. Her fingertip, warm from the dance and the room, left a phantom brand on his skin. "I should probably get going," she said, her voice dropping back into its normal register as she snatched her green sweater from the stool. "Early start tomorrow." "Right," he managed, the word a foreign object in his mouth. She wrestled her bag onto her shoulder, avoiding his eyes now, all that luminous energy retreating back inside its shell. She gave him a small, awkward wave. "Good to finally meet you, Shadow."
He just nodded, watching her weave through the thinning crowd toward the heavy wooden door. The tipsy rugby guy, swaying by the coat rack near the exit, perked up as she approached. His words slurred across the space."Oi! Where you off to? You gotta give us your number!" She stopped, facing him. A closed-door smile, the one Liam recognized from a hundred polite screenshots, spread across her face. She stared at him for a moment, then her shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. "Sure," she said, her voice light and false. She took his outstretched phone, her thumbs tapping the screen with a bright, brittle efficiency. "There you go." A moment later, her own phone buzzed in her bag, a sharp, cheerful chime that severed the space. She didn't look back as she pushed the door open and vanished into the wet Auckland night.
She didn't look back as she pushed the door open and vanished into the wet Auckland night. His hand stung. He glanced down. Pale amber beer and a single, delicate shard of glass sat in his palm, the rest of the pint glass still clenched in his other fist. He hadn’t felt the crack. Later, back in his silent flat, the faint smell of her still clinging to his jacket, he unlocked his phone. Her TikTok profile glowed at him. His thumbs, usually so precise, hesitated. He typed a single, useless line.
You made it home okay?
No reply came. The notification hovered, stubbornly unread, a digital testament to the stranger she’d treated him as. The next morning, after a night of fractured sleep, his coffee had gone cold. He scrolled. Her story update was a simple, stark image. A selfie, taken in what looked like a sun-drenched café window. Her dark curls were piled in a messy knot, tendrils framing her flushed face. The morning light caught the slope of her bare shoulder where her tank top strap had slipped, the same soft black fabric from the bar.
She looked directly into the camera, her brown eyes bright with something like defiance. His thumb tapped the screen almost of its own accord. The words "Seen 08:47" materialized instantly in the corner. He exhaled, slow. She knew.
The sting in his palm from the cracked glass was a dull, persistent throb. He stared at the café selfie, at the deliberate slip of her strap, at the challenge in her eyes that was meant for him. His thumb moved to the text box below her picture, hesitated, then retreated.
He poured the cold coffee down the sink, the dark stream pooling around discarded grounds. The silence of the flat was a physical pressure, broken only by the distant hum of the printing factory where he’d be in an hour. He picked his jacket up from the chair, burying his face in the wool collar for a second. It still held the faint, clean scent of her from the bar, a ghost tangled with the smell of beer and ink.
His phone sat heavy on the counter. He opened their TikTok chat, the history a pathetic scroll of his own unanswered ‘you okay?’ He deleted it. His fingers typed slowly, each tap an excavation.
Liam: Saw you found a cafe. The coffee any good?
He sent it before he could overthink the mundane words. He watched the tiny ‘Delivered’ notification. A minute passed. Then two. The status changed. Seen 08:52.
His breath caught.No dots. No reply. Just the brutal, factual ‘Seen’. He shoved the phone in his pocket, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door. The factory air would be loud enough to drown this out.
Halfway through his shift, wrist-deep in calming, mechanical routine, his phone vibrated against his thigh. He wiped ink-stained hands on a rag, his heart doing a stupid, hopeful thing. He pulled it out. A TikTok notification.
Zara: It’s decent. Better than the company I had last night, anyway.
He leaned against the cold metal of the printing press, the vibrations traveling up his spine. He typed a reply, erased it, typed again.
Liam: That guy seemed keen.
He hit send. The reply came faster this time.
Zara: He was. He texted. Something about a going out this weekend.
Liam’s jaw tightened. He stared at the words, the image of her laughing with that stranger in the bar flashing behind his eyes. The press hummed beside him, a massive, indifferent beast. He typed slowly, precisely.
He stared at the text history on his screen, a dull heat flushing the back of his neck. His reply appeared, each word a carefully placed stone across a river. Go on then. Let us know how that goes.
Five minutes passed in silence, filled only by the rhythmic thump of the press. Then her notification.
Her text appeared like a verdict, burning in his stained palm. "Maybe I should give him a chance." The world of the printing factory—the rhythmic thump, the chemical air—blurred into noise.
He couldn't move.
Another bubble of text popped up beneath the first. "I haven’t had sex for a while." Then, attached like a shrug, a single laughing emoji 😂. The sound of the press roared in his ears. The casual confession was a grenade tossed into the quiet space he’d hoarded for years.
He stared at the screen until the words bled into pixels. That laugh she’d shared with a stranger last night in the pub replayed in his head, sharp and clear. His knuckles ached where the glass had bitten him. A sickening cocktail of rejection and a raw, humiliating want churned in his gut. He typed three words. Deleted them. The press foreman's voice called his name from across the floor, a distant foghorn. He turned the phone face down on the metal table with a definitive tap.
He didn't reply.
For the rest of his shift, the screen stayed dark and silent beneath its scratched face. Every clang of machinery echoed her admission. It was his turn now. He drove home through the drizzle, his hands tight on the wheel. The flat was dark, smelling of dust and old coffee. He poured a whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light from the city below his window. He took the phone out. The glowing rectangle held the entire, bruising conversation.
Hours had passed. Her message hung there, unanswered, its emoji a grotesque little punctuation mark. The silence itself was a communication louder than any words. Let her wonder what that meant.
Let her wonder what that meant.
The quiet stretched, thin and brittle, until his phone buzzed again on the wooden table beside the whiskey glass. A new text from Zara, timestamped three minutes ago. He didn’t want to look. His thumb unlocked the screen anyway.
Zara: That’s it? Just radio silence? Classic.
He read it twice, the words short and sharp like taps from a hammer. He could picture her expression, that mix of irritation and hurt she got when he’d bail from a game without saying goodbye. He took a slow sip, the whiskey burning a clean trail down his throat. He typed a reply, his movements deliberate.
Liam: What do you want me to say, Zara?
The three dots pulsed on his screen, disappeared, then pulsed again. Her reply finally appeared.
Zara: Nevermind.
He watched the dots dance once more.
Zara: It was nice meeting you in person for the first time ever. Really.
The formality of it was a thousand times worse than her confession. It sealed the evening in the past, made it a completed transaction. His thumb moved, clumsy with frustration.
Liam: Why are you changing the subject?
The dots appeared instantly this time, as if she’d been waiting.
The dots appeared instantly this time, as if she’d been waiting.
Zara: I’m not changing the subject. I just wanted to tell you that. I feel like an inconvenience to you, Shadow, so you should just live your life.
The whiskey glass hit the table with a sharp crack. His response was too quick, the question leaping ahead of his caution.
Liam: Are you going to meet up with that guy? The one you gave your number to.
Her reply arrived after a beat, each word deliberate.
Zara: Yes, maybe. Why do you want to know?
He stared at her photo on the screen, at the defiant, glowing look in her eyes that now felt like a weapon. Rain streaked his dark window. The act of her giving that number, in that bar, repeated in a perfect, punishing loop in his mind.
Because it was his bar, his city, and she’d walked into both with a radiance that hadn't been meant for him. Because he’d chosen silence again, for years, and now some drunken stranger got to see her flushed with morning light. He flexed the hand that held the broken glass.
He stared at the fresh scar across his palm, a thin white line against the ink-stained skin. The memory of the crack, the warm drip of beer, was sharper than the lingering sting. His thumb hovered over the phone's glowing screen, her challenge hanging in the digital space between them.
"Why do you want to know?" she'd asked.
The whiskey warmth in his gut turned acidic. He thought of her laugh in the bar, the way her shoulder strap had slipped. He thought of the drunk guy's hand taking hers. His fingers moved, typing the words before his brain could censor them, each letter a stone dropped into a still pond.
Liam: Is that what you're after? Do you want to have sex with him?
He sent it. The silence that followed was absolute, a vacuum sucking the air from his flat. He watched the 'Delivered' notification, then nothing. No dots. He imagined her face, those expressive eyes wide, her mouth a soft 'o' of shock. The phone screen, mirrored in the dark window, showed only his own hollow reflection. He had crossed a line drawn in invisible ink years ago.
He had crossed a line drawn in invisible ink years ago.
Across the city, Zara’s phone buzzed on the café table, the screen lighting up with his message.
Her breath caught.
She stared at the words, her chest tight. ‘Is that what you're after? Do you want to have sex with him?’ The casual cruelty of it, the stark reduction, burned.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed, her reply fierce and fast.
Zara: What the actual fuck, Liam?
She didn’t wait.
Zara: Why would you ask me that? What is wrong with you?
His response came quicker than she expected, the three dots flashing for only a second.
Liam: You’re the one who brought it up.
She shook her head, alone at her small table.
Zara: I was being honest. You’re being a prick. There’s a difference.
A long pause followed.
The ‘Seen’ receipt glowed beneath her last message.
Then his answer appeared, slower this time.
Liam: So don’t go out with him.
She let out a sharp, humorless laugh, drawing a glance from a neighboring table.
Zara: Or what? You’ll ignore me harder? You don’t get a say.
His reply was a single, stark sentence.
Liam: I’m saying it now.
Zara stared at those four words, the world narrowing to the glare of the screen. The noise of the café faded into a dull roar. He was saying it now. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, every possible retort swirling into a frantic, silent storm.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, every possible retort swirling into a frantic, silent storm. She typed a single, searing line.
Zara: You don’t get to say anything. You had years to say something.
The three dots pulsed immediately, a frantic heartbeat on the screen.
Liam: I’m here now.
Zara: Now is too late. You’re just bored.
Liam: You think that’s what this is?
Zara: What else would it be?
A longer pause. The dots started and stopped twice.
Liam: You gave your number to a stranger in my pub.
Zara: It’s a public bar. And he asked. You didn’t.
The truth of it, bald and simple, hung in the digital space between them. She watched the dots cycle, and cycle, and cycle. Finally, his message appeared, stripped of all defense.
Liam: I’m asking now.
Her breath left her in a rush. The café’s noise rushed back in—the clatter of cups, the low murmur of conversations. She looked at his words, at the stark admission in them. She typed slowly, her heart a hard drum against her ribs.
Zara: Asking what?
His reply was instantaneous.
Liam: Don’t go out with him.
She never answered him.
Three nights later, the bass from a new craft beer bar thumped through the cool Ponsonby air. Inside, Zara leaned against a polished concrete column, the deep V of her emerald green slip dress falling in a dramatic sweep that revealed the elegant curve of her breasts. She looked devastating, a deliberate sculpture of confidence under the low lights, laughing at something a man in a crisp button-down was saying.
Liam pushed the door open, seeking only the noise to drown his own thoughts, and froze. The sight of her hit him like a physical blow. The man touched her arm, guiding her attention to his phone screen, and she smiled, a bright, public thing that never reached her eyes.
His feet carried him forward before he could stop them. “Zara.”
Her head snapped toward his voice, the practiced smile vanishing. The man beside her looked up, confused. “Give us a minute,” Liam said, the words not a request. He watched a flicker of defiance in her gaze before she nodded at her companion, who retreated with a shrug.
The air between them crackled, thick with the bass from the speakers and everything left unsaid for years. Liam’s gaze traveled over her, from the defiant set of her mouth down to the sharp line of the emerald dress, a slow, appraising look that felt more intimate than a touch. “You look…” he began, his voice low, but let the sentence dissolve, shaking his head slightly.
“Why are you here, Liam?” she cut in, her tone flat, her arms folding over her chest.
Her folded arms were a barricade against everything unsaid between them. He shrugged, the movement tight under his factory jacket. “Just finished work.” He didn’t look away from her. “Didn’t expect to bump into you here.”
Before she could reply, the man in the button-down reappeared, holding two fresh cocktails. He slid smoothly into the space between them, his shoulder nudging Liam back a half-step. “Everything alright?” he asked Zara, his voice dripping with a territorial concern that made Liam’s jaw click. He extended one of the glasses toward her. “You looked like you could use a top-up.”
Zara kept her eyes locked on Liam's as she took the glass. “Thanks, Matt. Would you mind giving us a few minutes alone?” Her voice was smooth, controlled, not matching the tremor in her hand. Matt’s smile faltered, his eyes darting between her and Liam’s unreadable face.
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll be over by the taps,” he said, withdrawing with a stiff nod that didn’t hide his annoyance.
The space he left felt cavernous. Liam’s gaze dropped from her eyes to the bracelet on her wrist, the one she always wore in their streams. “This feels impossible,” she said, the words barely rising above the music.
“What does?”
“This!” She gestured at the scant space between them. “You. Me. Standing here. It’s so awkward I can’t breathe.”
He said nothing, just watched her, and the silence felt like an accusation.
“I don’t know what I did wrong,” she continued, her voice cracking. “One minute we’re talking online and then I’m here and you’re… you’re looking at me like I’m a problem you need to solve.” She took a sharp breath. “I don’t want this tension.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then why does it feel like this?” she demanded. “Why did you ask me that… that horrible question?” The memory of his text hung in the air between them, ugly and sharp.
“Because you were going to leave with him,” he stated, his own frustration breaking through his calm.
“Because he was going to let me,” she fired back, her brown eyes flashing. “He didn’t make me feel like I was a broadcast interruption.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a strained whisper. “But why does it matter to you?”
The scent of her perfume—something like night-blooming jasmine and clean skin—cut through the bar's stale beer smell. It was dizzying. “It matters because.,” he said, the words forced out. “Seeing you give him your number. Watching him touch you.”
His words hung between them, stark and unadorned. The bass from the speakers thumped through the floor, a physical pulse against the sudden silence at their island.
“Why?” The word was a blade. Her eyes searched his, confused and defiant. “Why does it bother you that other guys talk to me, or ask for my number?”
She took a step closer, the green silk of her dress whispering.
“We’re not anything, Liam. We only just met in person for the first time, like, two days ago.” Her voice caught, fraying at the edges. “Before that, we were just pixels and bad jokes. It’s not like we were dating.”
She watched a muscle flex in his jaw, his gaze dropping to the bracelet on her wrist again. “We weren’t even really friends,” she pushed on, the hurt she’d carried for months sharpening her words. “You never, or barely, responded to me anyway online. You’d just vanish.”
The confession, spoken aloud in this crowded place, felt terrifyingly naked. “So what gives you the right now?”
“The thought of him touching you,” he said, his voice low, and the world seemed to shrink to the space between them. “It makes me want to put my fist through a wall.”
The raw admission stole her breath. This was a language she’d never heard from him, a seismic crack in his composed façade.
She blinked, her defiance momentarily unmoored. “Why?”
His eyes held hers, refusing to let her look away. “Because I imagined it was me.” She saw a flush creep up his neck, a battle between shame and truth.
She saw a flush creep up his neck, a battle between shame and truth. The music pounded around them, a dissonant soundtrack to his stripped-bare words. “You imagined it,” she repeated, her voice hollow with disbelief.
“Yes.”
“But you never acted like it.” She shook her head, the curls brushing her bare shoulders. “Online, you were a ghost. Half the time, you didn’t even reply to my messages.” She took a sharp breath, the green silk of her dress tightening across her chest. “So I have to ask,” she said, her voice dropping, “you didn’t seem all that interested before, and did it change after meeting me in person?”
She paused, letting the uncomfortable question hang in the beer-scented air. “Because it seems to be the only thing that’s changed.”
Liam’s gaze didn’t waver, but something in it fractured. “It’s not the only thing,” he said, his voice rough. “Seeing you laugh. Hearing your breath catch when you’re surprised.” He leaned in, his words meant only for her. “Knowing you’re real, and you’re here, and I can reach out and touch you.”
His hand lifted slightly from his side, a aborted motion. “That changes everything.”
She stared at him, the noise of the bar flattening into a dull hum. “That’s so unfair,” she breathed, the words catching in her throat. “You don’t get to say that now.”
He didn’t look away. “Why not?”
“Because I’m here with someone else tonight,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “I met Matt tonight.” She gestured vaguely toward the taps where the man in the button-down waited, watching them. “He asked. He’s here.”
Liam’s gaze didn’t follow her gesture. It remained fixed on her face. “And that’s what you want?”
“It’s what’s happening,” she countered, her fingers twisting the familiar bracelet on her wrist. “You had every chance to be the one standing here.” The music swelled, a bass-heavy beat that vibrated in her ribs. “You chose silence.”
“I’m not choosing it now.”
“It’s too late,” she whispered, but her eyes were glassy. She blinked, looking down at her drink. “You saw me give him my number and you cracked a glass.” She shook her head slowly, a curl falling across her cheek. “That’s not a plan, Liam. That’s just a reaction.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to have said something before!” The words burst from her, sharp and pained. A couple nearby glanced over. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Before I got on a plane. Before I gave up.” Her scent, jasmine and night air, wrapped around him. “Now I’m just the girl who makes you jealous enough to break things.”