You.
The word glows on my screen, simple and devastating.
A thrill flows from my chest down to my stomach. Since I confessed to King that he matters to me, our texts have been growing deeper and more intimate. He knows things about me I've never told anyone, like how I feel invisible in rooms full of people. How my greatest fear isn't failure but never being recognized.
I finally reply.
Ivy:
That's dangerous thinking.
King:
Maybe I like danger.
Ivy:
You don't know me well enough to think about me at 3 am.
But even after I send it, I know I'm only deceiving myself. King knows me more than most people.
King:
Then let me know you better. Tell me something that happened to you that you've never told anyone.
My fingers move before my brain catches up. I tell him about secrets from my childhood, about trying to prove my worth.
Ivy:
Sometimes I think I'll end up living my life as a footnote in someone else's life.
The vulnerability in the messages makes me nauseous. I almost delete them, but his response comes too quickly.
King:
You're not a footnote. You're much more significant than that. And anyone who can't see it isn't worth your time.
Tears prick my eyes.
Ivy:
How do you always know what to say?
King:
Because I listen. And you're worth listening to.
I clutch the phone to my chest, his words replaying in my head like a song I can't stop humming.
King is amazing. Kind. Funny. Smart. Polite. I think he might be the perfect man for me.
Which makes me wonder why he’s never asked to meet in person. Maybe he has a girlfriend he’s just never mentioned. But no—I can’t imagine King doing that.
Still, the thought lingers.
Then I picture an actual date with him. We’ve never talked about it, but I’m sure he has plenty of experience with women. What will he think when he finds out I’m a virgin? That I have no idea what I’m doing?
I know he’d be understanding. That’s who he is. But I also know that if I ever meet this perfect man, I want to be more than just understood. I want to be wanted. I want to be unforgettable.
