The guy who looked at me like I was magic, not merchandise. Who held eye contact like it meant something. Who kissed me like it was sacred.
And that’s terrifying.
I stare at my phone like it’s betrayed me. My heart’s still racing. Still sayingsay yes, say yes, say yes,but now my ribs feel too tight and my brain is barreling down memory lane at full spiral speed.
Every guy I’ve let past the outer gates of Cove-land has eventually turned on me. The ex who called me a tease in front of our friends. The one who said he couldn’t “wife a camgirl” afterhalf a year of encouraging me to stream in lingerie. The one who took screenshots and posted them in a group chat for clout. Even the sweet ones had expiration dates.
They all made me feel small, tiny, stupid and disposable.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat and glance at the message I’ve half-typed out:
Me: Let's do it. There’s this little ice cream spot by the boardwalk. I’ll even let you pick my flavor.
God, he’d love that. He’d probably show up nervous but game, flustered and smiling, trying not to let his eyes wander while I inevitably push all his buttons.
But I don’t hit send.
Instead, I stare at it for a long moment, then…
Backspace.
My thumb holds it down until the message disappears into nothing.
I toss my phone onto the pillow beside me like it just accused me of something.
Because the truth is…
Iwantto say yes.
I want to lean into this—the flirty texts, the no-cameras version of whatever this is becoming.
But I’m scared.
Not of him.
Of me.
Of what I’ll become if I let myself want something real again and it crumbles.
By the way he already makes me forget the rules I’ve lived by for years.
I spend the next hour scrolling TikTok, watching recipe hacks and sped-up DIY videos I’ll never use. Just trying to drown the noise in my head.
But the quiet finds me anyway.
That kind of ache that settles behind the sternum and whispers things likeyou’re gonna regret this.
And maybe it’s right.
I pick up the phone again and type one line.
Me: I don’t know what this is, but I’m not ready to let go of it yet.
My thumb hovers but I click send. There’s no flirty GIF this time or suggestive emoji.
Just me.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
