Page 10 of Shut Up and Score
No, that's a lie. It started the second I heard his laugh.
Micah.
I haven’t said his name out loud in two years. But I’ve thought it. More than I’d ever admit.
And today, he was just…there.As if the universe decided to punish me for every bad choice I’ve ever made.
Jasmine thought the kiss meant something, that me being rock hard beneath her meant I was going to fuck her later. Hell, she probably thinks I’m going to propose after midterms. I thought she had felt the fakeness of our relationship. But I might be wrong. I couldn’t even look her in the eye after our lips separated.
Because all I could see was Micah walking away again. I run a hand through my hair, pace once, then give in and grab my phone.
Just to check the app.
Just to see if anything—anyone—new has popped up.
The profile I bookmarked earlier is still there. Blank icon. No photo. But the words hit different now.
Not looking to be saved. Just want to burn.
I don’t know what it is about that line. The quiet desperation of it. The honesty. It doesn’t sound the same as most of the guys on here trying to flex their way into validation. Or the ones that clearly just want a hole to fuck.
It sounds like someone who’s already bleeding and just wants the heat to mean something.
I tap the profile again. And that’s when I see it.
Matched.
The word sits there in a small, simple font beneath the username. Clean. Unassuming. But it rolls through me all the same.
He matched me. My thumb hovers over the screen, pulse quickening. I shouldn’t message.
It’s not smart. It’s not me. But being smart hasn’t exactly done me any favors lately.
I tap open the chat box. Then stare at the blinking cursor for way too long.
My heart’s pounding behind my ribcage, and my mouth is dry.
I think of Micah—pressed against me under the bleachers. The heat of his mouth. The way his hands gripped my hoodie like heneededit and neededme.And how I destroyed it in seconds.
Before I can talk myself out of it, with shaking hands, I type:
Me: You said you want to burn. Mind if I bring the match?
Fuck.
I hit send before I can second-guess it.
My thumb hovers over the screen as though I might unsend it, delete the whole account, throw the phone out the window.
But I don’t.
Because some part of me—some pathetic, aching part—wants to believe there’s still something left in me worth setting fire to. That I might be able to become who I actually am. Instead of all this pretending.
I stare at the screen waiting for it to light up.
Like maybe this mystery guy—whoever he is—might feel the same fire crawling under my skin and answerright now.
He doesn’t. The app stays quiet. Message markedsentbut not read. My stomach knots.
