By Alex R.
“More than you, clearly,” she said, snatching my phone. She deleted my message and typed something else. My heart stopped. She handed it back. The message now read: “I saw you listening to The Smiths earlier. Bold choice for a Tuesday. Tell me you’re not that melancholy in real life.”
One night, we were lying on the living room floor after a family movie marathon. Our parents had gone to bed. The screen was playing static. She was teaching me about “the slow burn” trope in romance—the one where the two characters don’t even realize they’re falling for each other until the third act.
“That’s the other thing they don’t tell you about storylines, Alex,” she said softly. “Sometimes the best one is the one you don’t follow. Because the cost is too high.”
“Yeah,” I whispered, my throat dry. “I can see how that would be dangerous.”