Ten whole months of texts, of jokes, of conversations that bled into 2AM confessions, of sharing playlists and dreams and late-night thoughts I wouldn’t even tell my therapist.
We don’t know each other’s names, we never show each other our faces, but we know everything there is to know about one another.
And what I do know is that he calls me Bunny. That he texts me first every morning. That he makes me laugh until I’m on the verge of tears, that he makes me blush, makes my thighs press together and…
I shake my head, feeling the familiar ache between my legs at the thought of our late-night conversations.
He’s never missed a single day. Not one. And every time my phone lights up with his name, I feel that same little flutter in my chest.
I stare at the new text, that dumb little smirk tugging at my lips before I can stop it. Ten months later and I still get butterflies over a guy I probably couldn’t pick out of a lineup.
Pathetic? Maybe. But also undeniably addictive.
I release my lip from my teeth and type out a reply.
Me:Send help.
His typing bubble pops up instantly.
Ghost:Show me the options.
I chew the inside of my cheek and glance at the clothes still strewn across my bed. Then my eyes land on the very short black skirt I tossed aside earlier for being too short.
I grab it, hold it up, and take a quick pic—just the skirt in my hand against the backdrop of my bed disaster.
Me:Should I wear this?
His reply comes back instantly.
Ghost:Absolutely not.
Ghost:Unless I’m around.
I drop my phone on the bed as I fight back the stupid smile stretching across my cheeks.
This is ridiculous. No one has made me giggle over texts. No one but him.
I reach for my phone again, fingers still tingling from his reply, when I hear the music downstairs crank up to house party level. There’s heavy bass, low thrum, and underneath it—male voices.
My stomach flips as I glance toward the mirror, still barefoot and half-dressed. I turn back to my phone and type out a reply.
Me:Try to stop me.
The music is already shaking the walls by the time I step out of my room.
Some heavy bass remix that makes the staircase vibrate under my feet as I walk down, each step louder in my ears than the last.
By the time I reach the first floor, it’s like I’ve been dropped into the middle of a war zone—one lined with men built like tanks, all shouting over one another about something sports-related and entirely unintelligible.
They’re everywhere—in the living room, near the kitchen, and dripping out onto the patio like they own the place. Which is hilarious, considering this is technically my new home.
But no one here looks like they just arrived. No one’s awkward. No one’s unsure. They’re laughing, tossing beers across the room, barking out greetings with the confidence of people who’ve been in this house a hundred times.
Meanwhile, I’ve been here for two days. Two days of cardboard boxes, conversations with Dominic, and overthinking every small choice like it’s going to ruin my reputation in a town where I know exactly zero people.
I tug at the hem of the summer dress I finally chose. It’s simple, soft yellow, fluttery at the bottom with tiny embroidered flowersthat make me look less like a sad adult child and more like someone trying to embrace Miami sunshine.
I thought it looked sweet. Now it feels a little stupid.
