texting loser!ellie that you have n!pple piercing in class 8
nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader
bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.
The cafeteria was filled with the same usual noise—clattering trays, overlapping conversations, chairs scraping against tile. It buzzed with a kind of predictable rhythm, the same one it always did around this time.
You were sitting with your friends, half-listening to a story one of them was telling from over the weekend. The table was loud in the best way—jokes tossed casually across plates, someone playfully flicking a crumpled napkin at someone else, laughter layered over laughter. It was the kind of easy noise that made everything feel a little lighter.
You were smiling. Laughing, even. Shoulders relaxed as you turned to the friend beside you to say something, voice still warm from the last joke.
Without meaning to, your eyes drifted past their shoulder—just a casual glance across the room, unintentional—and landed on the far side of the cafeteria.
Ellie was sitting at a table. Alone.
She was eating quietly, head slightly bent, posture slouched in a way that made her seem withdrawn, like the noise of the cafeteria didn’t quite reach her. Her gaze hovered somewhere over her tray, unfocused despite being aimed at the food.
Your friend beside you said something—maybe a question—and you nodded, not really processing it.
But your eyes drifted back to Ellie anyway. Finding her still in the same spot.
You turned back to your friend, snapping out of it as the noise of the table rushed back in.
“What were you saying again?” you asked, smile curling easily back onto your face—like nothing had pulled your attention away at all.
The rest of your day unfolded the way school days usually did—predictable, mildly exhausting, nothing worth remembering. You slid into your seats, tapped your pen against the desk while teachers talked, scribbled down whatever notes seemed useful enough to pass. You weren’t zoning out, exactly—but you weren’t clinging to every word either. You answered when you had to, smirked at a few classmates when something dumb happened, kept your head down just enough to avoid being called on more than necessary. It was routine. Easy to follow. Easy to get through.
“Mann, I just wanna go home,” you muttered, arms crossed as you leaned back slightly on the desk behind you. The late afternoon sun spilled through the windows, warm and drowsy, catching faintly on your shoes and the floor.
Your friend scoffed from her seat, a teasing smirk pulling at her mouth. “Just say you’re excited to sext your little boyfriend like you do every night.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Boyfriend my ass. I just wanna go home and rot.” You shrugged. “This week’s been really exhausting.”
“Mmhm,” she hummed, still smirking. “Who is he, anyway? Long-distance or something? I never pegged you for that type.”
You clicked your tongue. “I don’t have one, bitch.”
The two of you were the only ones in the classroom—early for English, the rest of the seats still empty—when you both shut up, hearing the scrape of a chair from behind.
Ellie had just sat down in her usual seat near the front, dropping her bag next to her chair, her face unreadable.
You slid properly into your chair, the legs scraping lightly against the floor. Stretching your arms, you leaned back once before catching the way your friend was suddenly looking at you.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
She leaned over, voice low like it was something juicy. “Do you know she’s a lesbian?” Her eyes didn’t bother being subtle—they flicked straight toward Ellie at the front of the room.
You frowned, glancing in the same direction before turning back. “Yeah? Why? I think everyone knows that.”
Your friend shrugged, lips already curling into a smirk. “Nothing. Just… she’s your book project partner, right?”
You didn’t like her tone and the way her eyes stayed trained on Ellie, like she was trying to find something funny in how she sat alone.
She leaned closer, still grinning. “I mean, if it were me, I’d be careful. You never know. Girls like that—once they get too comfortable, who knows what they’re thinking. One sleepover and boom—”
She snickered, clearly pleased with herself, like she’d just said something clever.
For a second, you just stared at her—caught off guard. Not in disbelief exactly, but in that stunned, flat way where your brain had to catch up to the words.
Your expression didn’t move, but something in you flinched. Like her voice had struck a nerve you hadn’t realized was raw.
Your face stayed still, but inside, it itched—tight and uncomfortable. Annoyance, mostly. And something else you didn’t want to look at too closely.
You could’ve said something. A sharp comeback. A “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Maybe even just a look.
You just watched her for another second, your expression flat.
She didn’t even notice. Too busy brushing lint off her sleeve and reaching for her lip gloss.
Then, like it had just occurred to her, she glanced up again. “Wait—didn’t I see you talking to her at Stan’s party last month? Like, alone.”
Your stomach did something.
You scoffed before your face could give anything away. “Pretty sure you were too drunk to notice anything. You were busy making out with that guy behind the snack table.”
She laughed, unbothered. “Oh my God, don’t remind me.”
But your hands were tense in your lap. Burning a little.
You turned away, settling into your chair just as the rest of the class filtered in—the scrape of chairs and shuffle of backpacks filling the space where your words should’ve been.
The class shifted when Ms. Alvarez finally stepped in, heels clicking lightly across the floor as she made her way to the front. A few last-minute whispers died down as she opened her laptop and greeted the room, her voice casual as always.
“Alright, we’re watching something today,” she said, already clicking through her files. “It’s short, don’t get too excited. Documentary format. Take notes.”
The lights dimmed. The projector buzzed to life. A faint blue glow spread across the ceiling tiles as the opening credits rolled.
You leaned back in your seat, letting your eyes adjust. You weren’t really watching.
Your gaze drifted forward.
She sat in her usual seat—silent, the pale light from the screen brushing against the side of her face. It softened her expression, made the curve of her jaw look gentler somehow.
You couldn’t tell if she was paying attention or zoning out completely. Her arms were crossed on her desk, fingers curled loosely around her pen. From where you sat, she looked the same as always—quiet, maybe a little tired, but that was just a guess.
You hadn’t looked at her properly in weeks. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to see.
Because it had been a month since everything happened.
The days blurred together after that Saturday morning, when you woke up in Ellie’s room, her sheets slightly tangled around your legs, sunlight leaking too brightly through the blinds, casting everything in a kind of raw, unfiltered light.
You hadn’t stayed long. You’d pulled your shoes on quietly, and wore the same clothes from the night before—clean and warm from the dryer. The same ones you kissed Ellie in. The same ones you threw up in after.
You only muttered something vague about getting home and avoided her eyes the whole time. You didn’t even touch the breakfast she made. She didn’t stop you, letting you go like she already knew you wouldn’t stay.
You went home that morning with your chest tight and your head full. The guilt settled in fast and thick in your throat the whole walk back.
You’d kissed someone else.
And even if you and E had never met in person, even if it was just messages and that weird, soft feeling when she called you hers—it felt like cheating.
The thought of E finding out made your stomach twist—not just because she might leave, but because she might disappear in that way people do when something breaks and doesn’t get fixed. You were scared she’d think it hadn’t mattered to you—that whatever you had, whatever it was becoming, was easy to ruin. Like it didn’t mean enough to stay loyal to.
So you didn’t tell her. You couldn’t risk losing her.
Instead, you promised yourself you’d be better. For her.
You started avoiding Ellie the next week after that.
You still sat beside her in English, but the space between you had changed. You kept your eyes down, focused on your notebook, answering only when you had to. You didn’t lean over. Didn’t nudge her with your elbow. Didn’t steal her highlighter just to make her roll her eyes.
No more pointless bickering over outlines. No dumb doodles on the edges of her notes. You sat farther, spoke less, and hoped the shift wouldn’t feel as obvious as it did.
She glanced over a few times—quiet, careful glances like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to look. But you never met her eyes.
When Ms. Alvarez suggested quick partners for an activity, Ellie shifted beside you like she always did. Like she expected you to turn to her.
But you didn’t. You were already tapping the desk beside yours. “Wanna pair up?”
You didn’t see Ellie’s face that time. Only heard the scrape of her chair as she got up to find someone else.
Then a minute later, the chair slid again, and when you glanced, you realized she had come back. Returned to her seat, alone. Whether no one wanted to partner with her or she’d given up trying, you didn’t know.
In the library, it was easier. There were rules there—silence, distance, structure. You gave short answers, kept your eyes on your notes, and eventually suggested splitting the project altogether. Said it would save time. Said it made sense. She nodded without questioning it, but her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the table like she was holding something back.
Then the project got pushed to next semester.
After that, you didn’t have a reason to sit beside her anymore.
You passed her in the hallway once. She smiled—small and unsure. You looked away before you could smile back.
The last time you passed her by the lockers, she looked like she might say something. Her lips slightly parted. But you walked past her before she could finish whatever it was.
Somehow, over time, it got easier not to talk. Easier to pretend none of it happened. Like you’d never kissed her at all.
And eventually, you two just stopped talking entirely.
The screen flickered dimly in front of you, the narrator’s voice muffled beneath the quiet hum in your head.
You blinked slowly, dragging yourself back to the present. The soft blue light from the projector washed over the classroom in pale strokes, casting faint shadows along the walls and across the edge of Ellie’s jaw. She hadn’t moved in a while. Neither had you.
You let out a quiet breath and shifted in your seat, eyes drifting back to the screen. You tried to focus, to absorb the last few lines of narration, but they never really landed.
A few minutes later, the credits rolled.
The lights came back on. Ms. Alvarez clapped her hands once, asking the class for quick thoughts—something about tone, structure, the film’s underlying message. A few hands went up. She then reminded everyone to submit a short written analysis before the end of the period.
You scribbled down a sentence you’d probably never read again, your pen moving more out of habit than purpose. When you glanced up, you caught the movement—Ellie was already on her feet.
She was the first to stand, her chair scraping softly across the floor. She picked up her bag, slung it over one shoulder, and walked up to the front to hand in her work. Ms. Alvarez said something, but Ellie just gave a small nod and kept moving. She headed for the door without a word.
Something sudden and sharp stirred in your chest.
You didn’t think and just moved.
You jotted down the last thought like it mattered, like it wasn’t just an excuse to leave. Then you zipped your bag in one motion and slipped into the small crowd of students making their way out. You caught a glimpse of her hoodie disappearing into the hallway.
You looked up just in time to catch another glimpse of her—hoodie pulled up slightly, bag bouncing against her hip as she turned the corner. She was fast, slipping through gaps in the crowd like she didn’t want to be seen. For a second, you lost her completely in the blur of students pushing through the hallway.
Your heart kicked up. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder and squeezed between two people mid conversation, muttering a quick “sorry” as you ducked past them.
“Ellie!” you called out, louder than you meant to.
But she didn’t walk out either.
Instead, she turned left, toward the row of lockers.
You caught a full view of her then—standing at her locker, one hand already spinning the lock, the other adjusting the strap on her bag. Her shoulders were tight, her posture stiff in a way that made you wonder if she’d heard you after all.
You quickened your pace, weaving through the last few stragglers in the hallway. Your legs worked faster than your thoughts, and by the time you reached her, you were slightly breathless.
Not just from half running. But from the fact that it was her.
She glanced up at the sound of your footsteps.
You stopped beside her, catching your breath as casually as you could manage. You were keenly aware of the way your chest rose and fell, of the heat in your face, of how stupidly obvious it felt to be this winded over just trying to catch up to someone you used to sit beside at some point.
Your voice came out softer and breathless than you expected.
She didn’t say anything right away.
She just grabbed a notebook from inside her locker and slipped it into her bag. The zipper caught slightly before she tugged it shut. Then she finally turned, her eyes flicking to yours for the briefest second before dropping again.
Your heart was beating fast. You weren’t sure if it was from the running or just… this. Being here. Standing in front of her again after all the weeks of distance.
You cleared your throat quietly.
“How’ve you been?” you asked, voice light. Casual. Like it was the kind of question you could throw out to anyone.
Ellie shifted her bag on her shoulder, gaze still angled somewhere near the lockers.
“I’m good,” she said simply.
You nodded, swallowing down whatever that reply stirred in you. “That’s... good. I’m glad to know that.”
There was a pause. You found yourself looking at her again. This close, you could see the soft crease between her brows, the faint smudge of tiredness under her eyes. The way her mouth twitched like she was holding something back. You hadn’t been this close in weeks. It felt strange. Too familiar and too foreign at the same time.
You cleared your throat again, trying to settle your breathing. You were still a little winded, embarrassingly so. You looked away—only for a second—but not fast enough to miss it.
The faintest flicker of something on her face.
A twitch of amusement at the corner of her lips. Like she could tell you’d run to catch up to her. Like she almost wanted to say something about it.
But then her expression shifted back—blank and steady.
“Is that all?” she asked, voice level. “’Cause I need to go home.”
You blinked, a little flustered. “Uh—yeah. Of course.” You nodded quickly, like you hadn’t just jogged half a hallway for this.
Ellie gave a small nod in return, not quite looking at you. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she turned, slipping her hands into her hoodie pocket.
You watched her walk down the hallway, her steps steady and quiet. Her bag hung heavy on one shoulder, her head tilted just low enough that you couldn’t see her anymore.
The crowd moved around her like she wasn’t even there. Like she was just another part of the noise. You stood still, eyes following her until the space between you filled with bodies and noise and lockers slamming shut.
You can’t really blame her if she doesn’t wanna be… friends anymore.
Or if you two weren’t even friends to her.
But to you—she was. Or at least, something close to it.
Now, there’s nothing left to hold you in place. No project keeping you tethered. No reason to sit beside each other, or talk the way you used to.
You’re with different people.
With someone else, even—the same someone who got you into this mess with Ellie in the first place.
And maybe that’s all it ever was.
Something that only existed because it had to. Because you were assigned the same book. The same seat.
You can't do anything about it.
But it’s true that for all the things you’d lost, you were meant to gain something else.
With E now, it felt different—more real, more close. It's just something you chose—again and again.
Maybe Ellie knew why you pulled away. Maybe she understood it in the way she didn’t ask and didn’t try.
What you don’t know—what you’ve stopped trying to—is whether it ever meant anything to her.
Whether she ever cared, or just let it happen. Or If she noticed a part of yourself you had to set aside just to pretend it hadn’t happened.
You didn’t regret any of it anyway.
Not the space you let grow between you. Not even the way you kept your eyes down and your words tucked behind your teeth.
Because it ended this way for you.
You’d do it all again, if it meant ending up here.
E made everything easier.
If things had ended differently with you and Ellie.
If only you hadn’t kissed her that night. And If you hadn’t let something fleeting pull everything off course.
Then maybe it wouldn’t feel so hard—looking at her in passing, in those quiet moments when you’re so sure you just did something you need.
“You know it's actually crazy how you're just in another city...” you said, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
The line was quiet for a second but you knew she was there. You could hear her breathing. Faint rustling, the sound of her turning on her side. You pictured her like you always did. Hoodie on, bundled in a mess of pillows, phone pressed between her shoulder and her cheek.
You smiled to yourself and kept going.
“I used to imagine you were on the other side of the world. And I don’t know, I had this whole fake scenario in my head where I’d show up out of nowhere. Surprise you. You’d be in your room or walking out of class or something and then—there I am.”
She let out a small breath on the other end. A sound that might’ve been a laugh if she hadn’t been so quiet tonight.
“I used to see those videos all the time,” you added. “You know the ones? Girlfriends surprising each other at the airport. Best friends showing up with flowers. And I’d think—God, imagine doing that for you. Just once.”
“But now you’re just… in another city. Not even that far. Technically I could take a bus if I really wanted to. Though I’d probably get lost halfway and end up crying in a gas station or something.”
Still no real response, but she was there. You could feel it in the way the silence settled. Present and listening.
Your heart felt weirdly full.
“I’m… really happy we get to do this now,” you said. “I mean, I was happy before, even just texting you. That first week? I used to re-read our messages like a freak. You were the only good part of my day.”
“But now I get to call you. And it’s the end of my day, and I get to hear your voice, and it just... helps. I’ll be in class, barely surviving, and I’ll think, ‘okay, but I’ll call her later.’ And that makes everything easier.”
You rolled onto your side, pressing the phone a little closer.
“And then we hang up, and I wake up tomorrow, and it starts again. And I like that. I like knowing you’ll be there.”
“You’ll always be here, right?”
You sighed, eyes soft, the silence settling around your words.
There was a pause before a low hum filtered through the line.
You smiled a little, even though she couldn’t see it.
“You’re really quiet tonight. Are you okay?”
“Just tired,” she murmured.
You bit your lip, unsure. You’d been talking since you started the call—rambling, really. Filling the space with stories and soft admissions. Her silence hadn’t felt cold, but it was still lingering enough to make you wonder if you’d said too much.
You shifted on your pillow, ready to ask if she wanted to do anything—watch something together, listen to music, anything light enough to make her smile—but before you could say it, her voice cut through the silence.
“I love hearing you talk.”
Your mouth stayed slightly open, your question stuck somewhere between thought and breath.
The words came out of her soft. Almost hesitant like she'd been holding them in all night.
“Oh,” you said. And then, with a smile in your voice, “That’s good. ’Cause I kinda do that a lot.”
She didn’t reply right away, but you could hear it—something in her breathing. It was like her chest had loosened just a little.
“I could listen forever,” she added, almost under her breath.
You turned your face into the pillow, cheeks warm.
“You’re gonna make me annoying,” you whispered. “More than I already am.”
You laughed, quiet and breathy.
You let the silence come back for a moment and didn’t say anything else for a while after that.
Some nights, the calls weren’t as long. You’d talk about nothing in particular. The shape of clouds outside your window. What she had for dinner. Whether she thought moths were cute or creepy.
“Do you ever think about how weird it is that we’re just… talking? In real-time?” you said once. “Like, if someone told the 12-year-old version of me that I’d fall in love through a screen, I think I would’ve started crying.”
E gave a soft laugh. “That’s so specific.”
“I mean it,” you said. “It’s not even long-distance. It’s a little stupid, actually.”
You shifted, pulling the blanket closer under your chin. “Stupid in the way it makes everything else feel less important. Like I don’t literally care about anything right now except us.”
You breathed out, saying it felt like it had taken something from you. “And you’re...the most important person in my life, I think.”
She didn’t say anything to that.
And maybe she didn’t need to. Because your chest already ached—tight and breathless like your heart had flinched at the sound of your own voice. You’d meant it. Too much, maybe. And the silence on the other end only made it louder inside you. So after that, you tried to make her laugh.
Once, she made you guess what sound she was making.
“Okay, wait, guess this one,” she said, then paused. A muffled crackle came through the speaker.
You frowned. “Crinkling… paper?”
You could hear the smile in her voice. “Why the hell would there be leaves in my bed?”
You laughed. “I don’t know!”
“It was my granola bar wrapper,” she said smugly. “I dropped it on my notebook.”
You grinned into your pillow.
There were nights when she just rambled. Mostly about science. Her mouth full of sleepy facts.
“Did you know breakups can literally alter your brain chemistry?” she said one night, out of nowhere.
You blinked up at the ceiling, confused. “Um. No?”
“It’s true,” she said. “Our brains get used to a constant supply of neurotransmitters—dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin—because of attachment. And when that person goes away, your brain doesn’t know how to function anymore. It’s like withdrawal. Actual neurological withdrawal.”
“That’s kind of horrifying.”
“It is,” she said. “Romantic love is a drug. And coming down is the worst part.”
“Why are you saying this at midnight?”
“I was just thinking about it,” she mumbled. “Like, even if two people don’t talk anymore, the body still remembers. You still miss them. Even if you hate them.”
You stared into the dark, suddenly cold. “Do you hate anyone?”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“I don’t think I could ever hate you,” she said softly.
There was something careful in her voice, as if every word carried weight. She always meant what she said.
She talked like that sometimes. Soft and sure. Like when she read to you out loud for no reason, it was one of her habit.
A passage from a book she liked. A line from a random Reddit thread.
One time, she recited an entire YouTube comment section just to make you laugh.
“People are unhinged,” she said.
“You’re unhinged,” you told her.
She hummed. “But I’m funny.”
You scoffed but didn’t disagree.
Some nights, you teased her just to hear her get flustered.
“You’re kind of obsessed with me,” you said once, casually, like it wasn’t the third time that week.
“I don’t wish,” you said. “I know.”
She was quiet for a beat, trying not to take the bait. Then—“You’re delusional.”
You grinned into your pillow. “And yet you’re still here. On the phone. At 1 a.m.”
She exhaled through her nose. “Because I’m nice.”
“Because you’re in love.”
She groaned. “Oh my god.”
You laughed softly, already satisfied.
“You love me,” you whispered.
She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t hang up either.
You then smirked, voice dipping into something wicked. “Wanna see my pussy?”
“Jesus Christ,” She muttered, flustered. You could hear her shuffle around like she was trying to sit up straighter. “Why are you like this.”
You laughed, shameless. “You didn’t say no.”
She paused, then her voice came out low.
You let out a short, amused breath, your grin spreading.
“Huh,” you said, all mock surprise. Then, tilting your head a little, voice syrupy-sweet. “Knew you wanted to see it, little freak.”
Some nights are playful. Easy. You laugh too much. She pretends you're annoying. You pretend not to notice how she keeps staying on the line.
Some nights are like that.
But some nights are just you staring at the ceiling, waiting for her to call—thinking about how someday, maybe all of this will just blur.
What night she said what.
Which call made your chest feel like this.
You’ll forget which jokes made her laugh so hard she snorted, or when exactly her voice first dropped quiet and soft just for you.
But the feeling stays. You remember that part.
The glow of your screen in the dark.
The way your name sounded in her mouth, even when she was teasing.
Some nights, you didn’t even talk—just breathed, the silence holding both of you together.
You don’t know how long any of it will stay clear.
But you know what it felt like.
No matter what fades, what gets lost, what slips from your memory—
A call with her always ended your night. Her voice would come through warm and tired, the kind that made everything feel softer. Sometimes she'd laugh quietly, sometimes she'd admit something that made your chest ache a little in the best way. You didn’t need to fill every second with words—her silences were never empty. They were full of comfort, of presence, of knowing. Just being there, together, even apart, was enough.
And then, a text in class the next morning. Usually stupid. A blurry photo of her favorite big ass shirt with a hole in it. A cursed meme she found at 2 a.m. A dramatic “miss u” like you hadn’t just talked eight hours ago. You’d send back something equally unhinged. Or a photo of your lunch tray. Or the side of your face with the caption “thinking abt u but in a hot way.”
You dumped your pictures into the chat like it was a journal. You’d scroll through it sometimes—just to see how many versions of your face she’d heart-reacted to.
It felt easy. God, it felt easy.
Some days she’d say something stupid just to make you mad. Like how she swore cereal was better with water. Or that naps were a waste of time. Or that spiders deserved to be respected as roommates. You’d fight her for a full hour about it, caps-locked rants and everything, and she’d just keep poking, keep grinning through the screen.
And then some days she’d be so soft it broke something in you.
Like when she sent the package.
It was huge. Taped up like a child had done it. And inside, a human-sized teddy bear, chocolate you’d once mentioned in passing, a sweatshirt that smelled like her, and a note that said absolutely nothing important—just:
“I saw this and thought of you. Also you said you were cold. Also I wanted to win.”
You cried in your room, holding a six-foot bear.
Later that night, she watched you unbox the rest. You flipped the camera to show the chaos—ribbons everywhere, candy on the floor, your new favorite hoodie half on—and she just sighed and said:
You’d never felt so loved by someone who hadn’t even touched you yet.
She made playlists. She sent links to songs with the timestamp already set. She wrote, “this part sounds like us,” and you’d cry over some lyric you would’ve missed if she hadn’t pointed it out.
There was one night she made a slideshow.
Yes, a literal slideshow.
She titled it “top 10 reasons ur the most annoying person alive but i love u anyway.” And it even had transitions and background music.
There was a slide just for your laugh. Another for the way you said her first name when you were sleepy. One with screenshots of your texts—her favorite typos, the time you accidentally called her “bee” instead of “babe” and she decided that was her new contact name.
She sent you flowers sometimes. Not always for a reason. Just because she walked past a bouquet that made her think of you. They’d arrive midweek, wrapped in soft paper with little notes tucked inside—usually something dumb, like “you’re prettier than these” or “don’t die pls.”
Once, she mailed you a LEGO set she built herself. It was a tiny café, complete with miniature plants and chairs that didn’t stand up straight. She signed the box with, “for our first date spot in an alternate universe.” You kept it on your desk like it was priceless. Like it was proof that she’d been there, in some way, building things for you with her hands.
When her packages arrived, you always had the maid hide them for you before your parents could see. Tucked behind the laundry basket. Slipped under your bed. Buried in your closet. You’d wait until the house was empty and then carefully pull it all out like it was sacred.
You always tried to match it. When no one else was around. You slipped little things into your envelopes—a tiny sketch you doodled during math, a packet of candy she couldn’t find at her local store, a bracelet you made out of string and hope with both of your initials, a spritz of your perfume on the corner of a letter you wrote—just enough to carry a piece of you across the distance because you wanted her to know how you smelled on the days you missed her most. A photo she once said made you look “too hot for your own good.”
You wrote on the back of that Polaroid in your smallest handwriting. Just three words.
And even if you never mentioned it after, you knew she saw it. Because that night, she texted you nothing but a comma, and you understood what it meant.
It was a month of every small thing happening.
The kind of days that blurred together, but left behind a warmth you could still feel on your skin. Some mornings she’d say something that made you laugh all day. Some nights she’d hum a song you hadn’t heard in years and it would stick with you until sleep took over. Sometimes you missed her so much it made your chest feel too tight, like your ribs weren’t built to hold that kind of longing.
When it got cold at night, and the ache of missing her crept in despite the call you’d just had, you’d put on the last hoodie she sent and pull the sleeves over your hands. You’d bury your face in the fabric like it could bring her closer. Then you’d hug the teddy bear until it almost hurt.
When you got sick, and your throat hurt too much to talk, you didn’t hang up. You just laid there, quiet, eyes closed, phone pressed to your ear while she sang softly on the other end—gentle voice wrapped around the faint sound of a strumming guitar.
“Baby, baby, there will always be..”
“A space for you and me, right where you left it...”
You felt the words more than you heard them. Her voice came through like a hand on your back, slow and steady, grounding you in a world that kept spinning without her.
“I don’t want things to change, I pray they stay the same... always.”
Her voice turned softer, almost as if she didn’t mean to let it out,
“And I don’t care if you’re with somebody else…”
“I'll give you time and space, just know I'm not a phase..”
You didn’t understand why your chest ached when she said that. But something about the way she lingered on it—like it hurt to say, but more to keep in—made your fingers curl around the blanket a little tighter
You wanted to tell her you felt the same. That you didn’t need anything big or loud. Just this. Her voice in your ear. Her name in your mouth. Her breath between your sentences. A whole love, tucked into the spaces in between.
You didn’t say anything for a while after she finished singing. You just stayed there, listening to the soft background noise from her end of the line. It felt like proof that she was still there with you, even if neither of you said anything. You thought about how much you already knew—how you could recognize her voice, how you could tell what kind of mood she was in just by the way she breathed between words—but you still didn’t know her face.
You hesitated before speaking, your voice softer than before.
“Can I ask you something?”
You heard a faint shift, the sound of her adjusting the phone. She didn’t answer right away, but you could tell she was listening.
“I know I’ve never really asked this before. I didn’t want to make you feel weird about it or anything. I guess I just—kept waiting.”
You took a breath, your chest feeling too tight.
“You told me you’re taller than me. That your hair’s short, and you wear glasses. You said your eyes are brown and such. I know all of that.”
You looked up at the ceiling, like it would help you find the right words.
“But I still don’t know your face.”
You felt it more than you heard it, the shift in the air. The pause that followed was careful.
You kept going, slower now, afraid she might slip away if you pushed too hard.
“I’ve memorized your voice. I’ve kept every note you sent. I sleep in the hoodie you gave me. I’ve listened to the songs you said reminded you of me, and every time, it feels like I’m holding a new piece of you. I really do love all of it. I really do love you.”
You swallowed and closed your eyes.
“I just want to see the person I’m falling in love with.”
And maybe that was why you showed up anyway.
You got there early. You checked your hair in your phone screen a dozen times, smoothed it down even when it didn’t need it. You ordered something you didn’t even like, just to have something to hold. You chose the corner table near the window—just like she said.
Every time the door opened, your heart jumped a little, stupidly hopeful.
And every time, it wasn’t her.
She never actually said she was coming.
But she sent the name of the café. The time. No words, no promises—just that.
And that had to mean something, right?
The café slowly emptied. The light outside dimmed. Your drink turned cold, and still you sat there, trying not to keep glancing at the door. Eventually, even the hope started to feel embarrassing. And when you finally looked around and realized you were the last one left, the only thing that remained was the ache in your chest.
You stayed longer than you should have. Just in case.
Now you're home. The lights are off. Your phone screen glows in your hand.
You keep staring at the last long message she sent.
Your chest aches. It breaks—over and over—every time you read it again.
You can’t even do anything about it anymore because she deleted her account like it was her final choice, like she’ll never think of undoing it, and come back.
You wipe the wave of tears streaming down your face, your breath catching in broken sobs.
All that just for her to say sorry and I love you at the end.
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