[ For about an hour, Diana sits on the fire escape and rubs her thumbs along the frame of her phone, looking down at all the messages in it. The most recent one tightens something in her chest, and she thinks about all the times she could have replied. Could have said something in response to whatever message he'd sent that day, that hour, that morning or night. And she could've sent her own texts to him instead, beaten him to a morning greeting-- she was up by four practically every day now anyways.
But she doesn't, even if this one asks her straight to her face--
Why don't you?
What would she even say if she did sent him a reply? If she did call him, or answer when he did? She'd been gone for so long, even if she still knew some part of Stiles through his texts, but she'd lost herself a long time ago. ]
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But she doesn't, even if this one asks her straight to her face--
Why don't you?
What would she even say if she did sent him a reply? If she did call him, or answer when he did? She'd been gone for so long, even if she still knew some part of Stiles through his texts, but she'd lost herself a long time ago. ]