40

I've brushed my teeth three times.

Showered twice.

And I've changed hoodies four times.

It's 8:42 p.m.

I said it at 10:13 a.m.

And I still want to peel my skin off and scream into a void.

"You want to talk about my girlfriend?"

Seven words.

One impulse.

And now my brain is eating itself alive.

I didn't mean to say it.

I mean... I did.

It wasn't a lie.

But it came out with fire, teeth, and spine. In front of everyone. The class. The mean girls. That guy who once asked if my family had stock in human blood.

And Senna.

Senna, whose face went pink. Who blinked at me like I'd just declared war and called it poetry.

And now I'm pacing the length of my room like it owes me answers.

What if it was too much?

What if I made it weird?

What if she thinks I did it out of guilt or pity or... because I'm bored?

What if I said the one thing she wasn't ready to hear, and now the air between us will always taste like pressure?

I throw myself face-down on my bed.

Yell into my pillow.

Regret everything.

Then roll over and stare at the ceiling, wondering what it's like to be a person who doesn't panic when they like someone.

My phone buzzes. I grab it like it's a grenade.

It's not Senna.

It's Emory.

God help me.

EMORY: "Are you dead or just ghosting me because of the girlfriend thing"

ME: "Both"

EMORY: "So you said it?"

ME: "In class. To a bully. Loudly. Capital G."

EMORY: "You're my new Roman Empire."

ME: "I think I scared her."

EMORY: "Luca. She LIT UP like a studio set when you said it."

ME: "...oh my God."

EMORY: "Also, you've been in love with her since the art room incident. We all know."

ME: "You can't prove that."

EMORY: "You literally drew her sleeve in seven different styles in the margins of your chem notes."

ME: "shut up."

EMORY: "So... you gonna tell her how you feel for real? Or keep calling her your girlfriend and hoping she magically becomes one?"

I toss the phone onto my desk and groan so loud my dog across the hall barks.

I feel sick. And happy. And terrified. And nineteen.

I want to text her.

Then I want to throw my phone in the ocean.

Instead, I do the only thing I do know how to do.

I pull out my sketchbook.

Flip past every old sketch of her.

Smiling. Laughing. Curled under the stairs. Trying not to cry. Crying. Surviving.

Until I hit a blank page.

And I draw her today.

Blushing.

Hand in mine.

Looking like maybe-maybe-she believed me.

----------------------------------------------

It's fifth period.

Lunch.

Which means we meet under the stairs like always.

Same spot.

Same scuffed floor.

Same rectangle of shadowed light leaking in through the cracked window.

But nothing feels the same.

I'm early.

Which means I have two full minutes to panic about everything.

Like how he said I was his girlfriend in public.

Like how I liked it.

Like how we haven't actually talked about it, and my stomach is flipping like it's training for Olympic-level gymnastics.

He shows up with two sandwiches.

Doesn't ask what I want.

Just hands me one.

Like always.

Like he knows.

"Hi," I say, trying not to melt into the wall.

"Hey," he says, sitting way too close but pretending not to notice.

We unwrap our sandwiches in silence.

Well, fake silence.

My brain is screaming at 1,200 decibels.

"So," I say after three bites. "Girlfriend."

He chokes on a bite of turkey.

"I mean. Technically. You said it."

"Right." He coughs. "I did."

"So...?"

"So...?"

We look at each other.

Both of us mid-blush.

It's awful.

It's amazing.

I want to scream.

"Do you want it to be real?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He stares at me for a long second.

Then drops his sandwich.

"I thought it already was real."

My face combusts.

I make a strangled noise that may or may not be from this dimension.

"Okay," I say, heart pounding.

"Okay?" he asks, eyes wide like I just agreed to marry him.

"Okay," I repeat.

Then I take another bite of my sandwich so I don't have to look at him.

There's a pause.

Then:

"So... we're dating?"

"I guess we are."

"Do we tell people?"

"I think you already did," I snort.

He laughs.

God, that laugh.

It's stupid how much I like him.

"So do I, like... get to hold your hand now?" he asks, nudging my knee.

"You literally held it yesterday, Romeo."

"Yeah, but that was before I had a title."

"You had the audacity, not a title."

He grins.

And takes my hand.

Just... holds it.

Like he's never going to let go.

We sit like that - knees touching, hands warm, sandwiches forgotten.

And for the first time, the space under the stairs doesn't feel like hiding.

It feels like home.