When the story breaks, I send you a text.

– Are you seeing this?

The message is delivered yet not seen.

The last time we messaged was sixteen months ago, triggered by a song from back then, remade into something we both hated. There were a couple of texts back and forth, the usual glorifying of the good old days, which you called ‘the best days of our lives’.

I lie on the sofa listening as my phone vibrates against the floorboards. No matter who they’re from, the messages fall into one of three camps, mostly: Outrage (another one, are we even surprised?), Support (must be tough for you hearing all this) and Gentle Prodding (did you ever see anything?).

Deep down I wonder if everyone is a little bit in the third camp because we all know how this works; we’ve seen it play out many times over the last few years. One woman speaks, then another, then another, until it feels as if every woman has an account.

But I don’t.

Do you?

Is that why you’re not messaging me back?

Your reply comes later than night. Mostly ramblings about how happy those days were, the fun we had, the impossibility of so much freedom. But what about him, I ask. What about all these women and what they’re saying happened. You message back.

– I never felt unsafe with him

I ask if you recognised the voice of the blackened silhouette in the documentary. You must remember her, I say. Because no known voice can be hidden by decades and a false name.

– Yeah. I remember that girl

Stylist Short Stories: read The Best Days by Luan Goldie