Confessions in Ink

Spring couldn’t come fast enough.

After a week of late-night texting and hallway glances that felt like secrets, Anthony was finally coming over. My parents were out for the afternoon, and the plan was simple: hang out, swim, and maybe steal a few more of those kisses that left me dizzy.

I’d spent too long picking out a bikini. Not because I had that many — but because this was different. This was Anthony seeing me like that for the first time. Up close. Skin and curves and all the little things I usually kept hidden beneath school clothes and oversized hoodies.

I settled on a deep blue two-piece. Not too revealing, but just enough. When I slipped into it in the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror and held my breath.

My body was changing. It wasn’t just about looking good. It was about feeling… aware. Of how his eyes might follow the dip of my waist. Or how his hands might graze places they hadn’t before.

I stood in my bedroom adjusting the straps on my top, tugging them into place when I heard the front door open.

“Lila?” his voice called, playful. “You home?”

“Yeah! I’m just getting—” I turned, still facing the mirror.

Too late.

Anthony stood in the doorway, blinking twice, and then grinning — slow, crooked, dangerous.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the frame, “don’t let me stop you.”

I flushed, tugging the strap one more time and trying to play it off. “You could knock, you know.”

“I did.” He smirked. “You didn’t answer. So technically this is your fault.”

His eyes didn’t leave me. Not once.

“You look…” he paused, like he needed the right word. “Incredible.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile spreading across my face. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he said, taking a step into my room, “are hiding something.”

I froze. “What are you talking about?”

He nodded toward the bed. “You have a diary.”

My stomach dropped. “What? No, I don’t—”

“You absolutely do,” he said, already circling toward the other side of the room like a predator. “You’re a writer. You think too much. You blush too easily. You definitely write it all down somewhere.”

“Anthony…”

“You say my name like I’m doing something wrong.” He laughed, flipping one of my pillows aside. “But I know it’s here.”

I dove toward the bed, trying to intercept him, but he was quicker. His hand slid under the mattress — exactly where I’d hidden it — and pulled out the old, well-worn notebook.

He held it up with both hands like a prize.

“Bingo.”

“Give that back!” I said, lunging forward.

“Nope,” he said, flipping it open, walking backward across the room like I was some kind of threat. “If there are poems about my hands or lips in here, I deserve to know.”

I groaned. “Anthony—please. That’s private.”

He smiled, eyes flicking down the page.

And then he stopped.

And read.

Out loud.

“He made me feel like I was the only girl in the world. The only mouth he wanted. The only skin he wanted to touch.”

His voice was soft — almost reverent.

“Every time I blink, I see the look in his eyes before he leaned in. The pause. The wait. That silent question: Can I?”

I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

“I hate you,” I whispered, burying my face in my hands.

“No you don’t,” he said. He sat on the edge of the bed now, diary open in his lap. “You wrote about the way I kiss. About how it makes you feel. That’s not hate, angel.”

There it was again — angel — and my insides melted.

He kept reading, eyes scanning one of the longer entries. Then he glanced up.

“There’s a kind of ache in my stomach that only he causes. One I want to keep feeling. One I want him to fix.”

He tilted his head. “Fix how?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

He stood, setting the diary down gently, like it was sacred.

Then, slowly, he walked toward me — not like a boy rushing in, but like someone savoring every second of getting closer.

He touched my bare shoulder first, fingers light.

“Do you want me to show you what I read?” he whispered.

I nodded. Barely.

His hand slid down the strap I’d been adjusting earlier. Not enough to pull it off — just enough to feel it move against my skin. His mouth grazed my collarbone. Then my neck. Not kissing, not fully. Just breathing me in.

“You wrote,” he murmured, “that my lips made you dizzy.”

His lips brushed just under my jaw.

“Is this what you meant?”

I gasped, a soft sound escaping me without permission.

Then his hands slid lightly to my waist, fingers teasing along the edge of my bikini top.

“You also wrote,” he said, lips now at my ear, “that you imagined what it would feel like… if I let my hands roam.”

They did. Down. Slow.

But not too far.

Every part of me was buzzing. My breath hitched. My hands trembled. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want it to stop.

But it did.

He paused, fingers still at my waist, before pulling back slightly — just enough for space to slip between us again.

“I think,” he whispered, smirking, “we should go cool off in the pool before I make you write another page.”

I blinked, breathless.

“Anthony…”

He just winked and walked toward the door. “Come on, angel. Race you.”

I stood frozen for a moment, the ache inside me now pulsing.

I hated how he could flip the switch like that. Loved it. Hated it again.

But mostly, I just… wanted more.

The water was cold. Thankfully.

He dove in headfirst, emerging with his hair slicked back and droplets sliding down his shoulders. He looked like he belonged in the sun, the water catching in the lines of his smile.

I waded in slowly, trying to hide how shaky I still felt.

He swam up to me, arms circling around my waist beneath the surface.

“I read your words,” he said, voice low. “Now you’ve got mine.”

I looked up.

“What do you mean?”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against mine.

“You’re not the only one aching, Lila.”

Then he pulled me under — laughing.

And I surfaced grinning, gasping, heart still racing.

But somehow lighter.