The sun was high and the pool sparkled, clear and inviting, like it knew what kind of day it was going to be. Anthony had brought his swim trunks in a backpack, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes already scanning the water like it was daring him to dive in.
“You’re going down,” he said, tossing the bag aside. I raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” “We’re making a whirlpool. Winner gets bragging rights. And possibly a popsicle.” “Oh, well then,” I said, walking to the edge, water lapping at my toes, “prepare to lose.” We got in and immediately started the game — swimming along the edge of the pool in one continuous circle, picking up speed with every lap. Water began to spiral around us, dragging at our limbs, churning beneath our feet. It felt silly and childish and perfect. Like something out of a summer I never wanted to end. Once the current felt strong enough, Anthony shouted, “Switch!” We turned, trying to push against the current we’d just created. It was harder than it looked. My legs fought the water, laughter spilling out of me as I slipped, flailed, grabbed for the edge. And that’s when it happened. I felt a soft tug at my shoulder. Then… nothing. The strap. I froze. One side of my bikini top had come completely undone, floating loose and useless beneath the water. “Crap,” I whispered, hands shooting up to cover myself. Anthony noticed immediately. His smile shifted — still playful, but with a flicker of something else. Awareness. Teasing. Hunger restrained. “Uh oh,” he said, swimming over slowly. “Looks like you’re falling apart.” “Not funny.” “Oh, it’s very funny,” he said, stopping just in front of me. His eyes held mine for a beat before flicking downward, but not in a crude way — more like he was savoring the moment without taking it too far. “Don’t just stare,” I hissed, cheeks blazing. “Help me!” He raised his hands in surrender. “Permission to touch the holy strap?” “Permission granted. Just hurry.” He moved behind me, hands sliding gently over my shoulders, slow and deliberate. I felt his fingers fumble slightly as he grabbed the loose ends of the strap. “You know,” he whispered near my ear, “you should really write about this in that little diary of yours.” “Anthony.” “I’m just saying,” he murmured, tugging the strings taut before knotting them, “a strapless moment, a panicked girl, a helpful boy with wandering hands… very poetic.” His fingertips brushed my shoulder blades. Just a little. Just enough to make me shiver. “There,” he said, voice lower now. “Good as new. But if it happens again, I’ll have no choice but to rescue you… mouth first.” I turned around quickly, splashing him in the face. He laughed, wiping water from his eyes. “That’s the thanks I get?” “Yes. And now I’m hungry.” We got out of the pool, towels wrapped tightly around us, the sun warming our damp skin as we padded inside. I flicked on the kitchen fan and pulled open the fridge. “I’m making my grandma’s chicken casserole,” I said, tossing a dish towel at him. “You can help or just look pretty.” “I can do both,” he said, grabbing a spoon. The kitchen filled with the sound of clattering pans, my phone playing some old early-2010s pop song through the Bluetooth speaker, and the smell of sautéing onions. It was domestic, chaotic, and weirdly comforting. I explained each step to him as we went — how the onions needed to get translucent, how the shredded chicken had to be pre-cooked just right, how the secret was in the dash of cayenne. “You sound like someone’s wife,” he said, stirring slowly. “I sound like someone’s granddaughter,” I corrected. He nodded. “Same thing. Old soul. Soft hands. Secret spice.” I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth. We danced between kitchen steps — literally. During the ten-minute simmer, Anthony grabbed my hand and spun me in a lazy circle, then pulled me in, swaying side to side. He smelled like chlorine and sunshine, and my heart thudded hard against my ribs. “I could get used to this,” he said softly. “To dancing in damp towels and cooking like married people?” He tilted his head. “Yeah. Kind of.” The timer went off, and I stepped away before the moment got too serious. He let me go, but not without brushing his hand lightly down my arm as I passed. After we cleaned up, we grabbed plates of casserole, two sodas, and made our way to my room. I switched on The Vampire Diaries — because it was nostalgic and overdramatic and perfect for cuddling. We curled up on my bed, still damp-haired and sun-kissed, plates balanced on knees. By episode three, we were tangled in each other, heads resting against shoulders, his hand absentmindedly stroking the side of my leg through the blanket. I didn’t even realize how tired I was until my eyes started to flutter. Warm. Safe. Full. That’s when I heard the front door open. “Lila? We’re home!” My mom’s voice. I jolted up slightly, and Anthony chuckled. “Busted.” “It’s fine,” I said, smoothing my hair. “They know you’re here.” A minute later, there was a gentle knock on the door. My mom peeked in and smiled. “Hey you two. Dinner smells great.” “Leftovers in the fridge,” I said. She gave me a look — half mom, half amused woman who remembers being a teen — then disappeared. Anthony chuckled again, pulling me back into the crook of his arm. “She likes me.” “She doesn’t not like you.” “Progress,” he whispered. The episode kept playing, but I barely watched. I was too focused on the way his thumb traced slow circles on my side. The way his breathing had slowed. The way I felt like I could finally rest — not just physically, but emotionally. Like I didn’t have to be anyone else but this. Here. With him. I don’t know exactly when I fell asleep. Just that when I woke up briefly later, the room was dark except for the soft flicker of the TV. And Anthony was still beside me. Not kissing. Not teasing. Just holding. His hand was in my hair. His other arm was tucked around me, and his head leaned back against the wall. He didn’t say anything when I stirred. Just opened his eyes, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “Sleep, angel. I’m not going anywhere.” And I believed him.The decision had been brewing in Lila’s mind for days, a knot of anxiety twisting tighter each time her phone buzzed. At first, she thought she could ignore it—block the number, delete the messages, pretend none of it was happening. But pretending didn’t stop the way her hands shook when her screen lit up, or how her stomach dropped at the sight of another photo she hadn’t consented to be taken. It didn’t stop the fear that whoever was behind it was watching her even now, cataloguing her life like a series of stolen moments.So on a cool Thursday morning, when the rest of the world felt caught in the slow hum of early spring, Lila marched herself into her phone carrier’s store.She sat in the plastic chair across from a clerk who looked hardly older than her, fingers flying across a keyboard as he pulled up her account. “So you’re wanting to change your number completely?” he asked, voice flat with the practiced tone of someone who’d asked the question a hundred ti
The sunlight filtering through Lila’s blinds didn’t feel warm today—it felt intrusive. Every beam seemed to spotlight the unease curling in her chest, reminding her that no matter how much she tried to pretend, the unknown sender was still out there, still watching, still whispering into her life through texts and images. She sat cross-legged on her bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the latest barrage of messages that had come overnight. Each ping made her flinch.Nicole and Mae had insisted she bring the phone over so they could examine it together. If Terra really was behind this, they needed a strategy, and Lila wasn’t going to be the only one on edge anymore.By mid-morning, Lila had texted her friends to come over. When the doorbell rang, she opened it to find Nicole with a backpack slung over one shoulder and Mae holding a laptop like it was a weapon.“Morning,” Nicole said, her tone a mixture of teasing and seriousness. “You’ve got that haunted
Lila couldn’t hear the world around her. The music from her phone, the hum of the ceiling fan, even the faint traffic outside her window—all of it faded beneath the roar in her chest. Her hands trembled as she clutched the phone, the screen lighting up with the last unanswered message she’d fired off at the anonymous number.Who are you? Why are you doing this? Why him? Why me?The reply had come in seconds, like whoever was on the other side was waiting, breathing down her neck through invisible wires.You’ll see. He’s not who you think he is. And I’ll prove it.And then, as if to twist the knife, the photo.Her and Anthony. From two nights ago, walking down the block after leaving Nicole’s house. She hadn’t even noticed anyone near them, let alone close enough to snap a picture. But there they were—her head tilted toward Anthony, his hand brushing hers, both of them caught in a moment that had felt so safe.Now it was ruined.
Lila couldn’t hear the world around her. The music from her phone, the hum of the ceiling fan, even the faint traffic outside her window—all of it faded beneath the roar in her chest. Her hands trembled as she clutched the phone, the screen lighting up with the last unanswered message she’d fired off at the anonymous number.Who are you? Why are you doing this? Why him? Why me?The reply had come in seconds, like whoever was on the other side was waiting, breathing down her neck through invisible wires.You’ll see. He’s not who you think he is. And I’ll prove it.And then, as if to twist the knife, the photo.Her and Anthony. From two nights ago, walking down the block after leaving Nicole’s house. She hadn’t even noticed anyone near them, let alone close enough to snap a picture. But there they were—her head tilted toward Anthony, his hand brushing hers, both of them caught in a moment that had felt so safe.Now it was ruined.
The night pressed in heavy, the kind that swallowed and wrapped the world in a suffocating stillness. Lila sat cross-legged on her bed, the pale glow of her phone the only light in the room. It illuminated her face like a cruel spotlight, highlighting the tension etched into her jaw, the tear-gloss sheen in her eyes.Her screen still showed the last message, waiting for her acknowledgment like a taunt.Does he tell you he loves you? Or does he just say it because you need to hear it?She hated how the words sank under her skin, how they poisoned the very place Anthony’s voice used to soothe her. She wanted to delete them, block the number, pretend this had never crawled into her world. But she couldn’t. She never could. Every time she silenced the phone, every time she told herself she was done, the messages found their way back to her like a shadow she couldn’t outrun.Tonight, though, she was done being passive. Tonight, she couldn’t shove it aside anymore. Somethi
The glow of Lila’s phone felt like fire against her palm. Another message had arrived—no name, no picture, just the same number that had haunted her for weeks.“He’ll never love you the way you think. He belongs to me.”She squeezed her eyes shut, every word carving deeper into the insecurities she thought Anthony’s presence had healed. She should have ignored it. She’d promised herself she would. But her thumb hovered over the keyboard like it had a mind of its own.Who are you? What do you want from me? she typed, heart slamming in her chest.The reply came instantly.“I want what’s mine.”Her breath caught. Fingers trembling, she typed again. You don’t even know me. Why are you sending me this?This time, instead of words, an image arrived. Her own face, taken from across the street outside her apartment. She was unlocking her car, wearing the same denim jacket she’d had on earlier that week. Her blood ran cold.The phone nearly slipped from her gr