The Pages That Burned

The silence of my bedroom felt too loud after the day we’d had. My skin still held the memory of the sun, and my hair smelled faintly like chlorine and his cologne. The pillows were still warm from where his body had rested next to mine.

I laid there in the dark for a long time, staring at the ceiling. My chest was full — too full — like something might burst if I didn’t let it out.

So I sat up, flicked on the little lamp beside my bed, and reached for the worn diary tucked back under the mattress.

The pen slid into my fingers as naturally as breath, and I opened to a fresh page.

May 6th

I don’t even know where to begin.

Today was… everything. I mean that in the way that people say something changed them. The kind of “everything” you feel in your bones. He swam with me. He tied my strap. He made me food. He held me like I was his whole world.

And the scariest part?

I liked every second of it.

No — I loved it.

There. I said it.

God, I love him.

I don’t know exactly when it happened. Maybe when he kissed me for the first time in my front yard. Or maybe when he read my diary and still looked at me like I was magic. Or maybe it was just today — watching him stir a casserole in my kitchen like we were playing house.

He makes me feel like I’m the only girl alive. The only girl who’s ever existed. And when he touches me — even just lightly — my whole body turns into this mess of nerves and heat and need.

I ache for him.

And it’s not just physical… but it is that too.

It’s the ache of wanting more. To be closer. To know what it would feel like if he really let go. If I did.

I’ve never done any of the things we whisper about through text messages. Never crossed those lines. But I think about it.

God, I think about it.

My phone buzzed on the blanket beside me. A message.

Anthony: Still thinking about you, angel. Can’t sleep. That bikini is burned into my brain.

I bit my lip and wrote back.

Me: Go to bed, perv.

A few seconds later, another buzz.

Anthony: Not until I tell you the fantasy I had in the shower.

My heart skipped. The air in the room suddenly felt hotter.

Me: Oh god. I’m scared.

Anthony: You shouldn’t be. You should be shaking.

Anthony: I imagined you in that blue bikini, soaking wet, water sliding down your chest… and me pinning you against the pool wall.

Anthony: Hands everywhere. Mouth too. You gasping. Begging.

I swallowed hard, my pulse thudding between my thighs.

Anthony: Then taking your hand and dragging you into the locker room. Locking the door. Pushing you against the cold tile.

Anthony: Just kissing you. Like I meant to drown you in it.

Anthony: Tongue in your mouth. Fingers in your hair. You whimpering my name like a prayer.

Anthony: That’s all. Just… that. But over and over until you couldn’t think.

I didn’t reply right away. I couldn’t. I was clenching the pen so hard it might snap in two.

Instead, I turned back to the page.

His texts drive me insane. Not because they’re dirty — they’re not, not exactly. He never says anything too vulgar. Never crosses that invisible line.

But he knows what he’s doing to me.

He describes things in detail — things he wants. Things I want too, even if I’m scared to say it out loud.

Like the way he always talks about my breathing. The way he notices my gasps. Says he loves hearing them. That he could chase them out of me all night long.

He tells me he wants to see me fall apart — not from anything he does with his body, but just from the way he talks, the way he touches, the way he looks at me.

And what terrifies me is how much I crave it.

Sometimes I catch myself fantasizing. Not about sex, exactly — but about everything just before it. His mouth on my neck. His hand under my shirt. My back arching because he’s driving me out of my mind.

I imagine his voice whispering things in my ear that would leave me breathless.

And I want that.

I want to feel out of control. But safe.

I want to feel his control.

I want him to pin me to the wall, yes — but I also want to look in his eyes afterward and know he still sees me as something beautiful. Something worthy of being loved.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?

Love.

Not a crush. Not lust. Not infatuation.

Real love. The kind that sneaks up on you and changes everything.

He makes me laugh when I forget how. He makes me brave. He listens to every stupid thought in my head like it’s a treasure map. And when he holds me — even with all the wanting, all the teasing — I never feel unsafe. I feel cherished.

I don’t even know if I’ll tell him yet.

Maybe I won’t have to. Maybe he already knows.

Or maybe I’ll keep writing it here for now — in this little book where I can be honest in a way the world doesn’t always allow.

But it’s real.

And it’s mine.

The phone buzzed again.

Anthony: Did I scare you off?

I smiled softly.

Me: No. Just needed a cold shower.

Anthony: Same. But I’d rather you be the one making me cold.

Me: Goodnight, troublemaker.

Anthony: Goodnight, angel. Dream of me.

I closed the diary, holding it to my chest like it could absorb the heat inside me.

And I knew right then that I’d never be the same again.