And yet my chest feels like it’s been rewired.
Ollie.
We’re worlds apart, yet somehow I feel closer to him than I’ve felt to anyone. That laugh, that soft confession about missing his sister. The way he said thanks for calling like he meant it, like maybe he needed it.
Fuck.
I shove off the bed, restless as hell, pacing my old room like it’s too small to hold me. The posters on the wall, the stack of vinyl in the corner, the beat-up bass propped against my dresser—it’s all familiar, grounding. But I can’t sit still.
I grab my notebook from the desk and flip it open, pen already in hand before I even know what I’m writing. Words spill out, jagged and uneven:
Tux and tamales,
chandeliers and cracked leather couches.
You’re the captain with a leash,
but I want to know the boy who blushes.
The pen scratches, fast, my brain tumbling ahead of itself. It’s always like this lately. Since the day he saw me, since that look across the hallway, since the blush that knocked the air out of me. He’s in every lyric, every line. I can’t seem to write about anything else.
I press harder, the letters carving deep.
Your laugh is rare and I want to steal it.
Your silence is louder than a scream.
I’d burn my lungs just to get closer,
peel back the armor and find the dream.
I stop and drag a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath. Jesus. He’s a muse I never asked for, and it’s driving me insane. I want to peel back his layers, get under that tight control, find the real him. The one who misses his sister, the one who blushes when our eyes meet, the one who maybe—maybe—wants more than the golden path his parents and the whole damn state have laid out for him.
And fuck, I want to be the one who finds it.
I close the notebook, too wired to keep going, and drop onto the edge of my bed. My fingers itch, so I grab the old acoustic leaning by the dresser. The strings are a little dead, but the sound’s enough. I strum, low and steady, chasing a melody that matches the scratch of my pen. Something raw, something that feels like him.
My pulse slows a little, not much. The frustration’s still there, buzzing. Because it’s not enough. Lyrics and chords don’t give me his voice in my ear, his eyes on me, that look that makes me feel like I’ve been pulled into his orbit without permission.
I want more.
And that scares the shit out of me. Because he’s got a leash he doesn’t think he can escape. And me? I don’t chase closeted boys. I don’t. But here I am, already chasing him on paper, in my head, in every fucking note.
My phone buzzes on the bed beside me. Just a text from Rosa asking if I want hot chocolate. I laugh under my breath, text backyes, and set the guitar down.
But I know when I close my eyes tonight, it won’t be sugar and cinnamon I taste. It’ll be Ollie’s voice, soft and careful, sayingThanks for calling.
And fuck if I don’t want to hear it again.
I’m still sitting here, strung tight with music and nerves, when the door creaks open without so much as a knock.
Rosa steps in, two mugs in her hands and that smug little smile that says she knows something I don’t want her to. Sixteen going on thirty. She sets one mug on my nightstand and blows on hers dramatically, flopping onto my bed like she owns it.
“You’re grinning like an idiot,” she says. “What’s her name?”
I snort, reaching for the hot chocolate. “Maybe I’m just happy to see you, brat.”
“Please.” She nudges my notebook with her toe. “You only look like that when you’re writing love songs. And I heard you talking to someone. You were smiling then too.”
