Typed, Sent, Felt

Words We Didn’t Say Out Loud

The night after the play, I kept replaying everything in my head — the spotlight, the way his fingers laced with mine, the way he said “I’ve got you” like it meant more than just a dance.

It was nearly 11 p.m. when my phone buzzed.

Anthony.

“Still awake?”

I didn’t even hesitate.

“Barely. You?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither. My brain won’t shut up.”

He waited a moment before replying.

“I keep thinking about the dance.”

My heart jumped. I stared at the screen, rereading it twice.

“Me too,” I finally wrote back.

“Can I tell you something kinda… intense?”

I swallowed hard. I already knew this was different. We didn’t usually talk like this — not directly. Our messages were usually playful, nerdy, sarcastic. But now something was shifting. I could feel it through the screen.

“Of course.”

He took a minute to type. Then another. Then:

“When you took my hand and pulled me onto the floor… I had this thought I can’t get out of my head.”

“What kind of thought?”

My hands were suddenly freezing. And sweating.

“I imagined not stopping when the song ended. Just… taking your hand and leading you away.”

“Where to?”

I was almost scared to ask. Almost. But I wanted to know.

“The locker room. The old one behind the gym no one uses.”

“Why there?”

“Because it’s quiet. And no one would interrupt.”

“And what would’ve happened if we’d gone there?”

The dots appeared. Stopped. Reappeared. Stopped again. My heart was pounding in my throat.

“I would’ve pressed you up against the wall. Kissed you like I’ve been wanting to for weeks. Slow at first. Just lips. Then deeper. Until your knees gave out and I had to hold you up.”

“What else?” I typed, my fingers trembling.

“My hands would’ve explored. Over your arms. Your waist. Maybe even under your dress.”

“Anthony…”

I didn’t know if I was blushing or burning alive. Probably both.

“I think about you all the time,” he wrote. “Not just like that. But like… in the way where everything else gets quiet when I see you.”

There were no more jokes. No more guessing. This was real. We were standing on the edge of something, and for once, I wasn’t afraid of falling.

I held my breath and typed what I’d been holding in for far too long.

“I like you. Like, really like you.”

“I know,” he said. “I like you too. Always have.”

That was it. There was no fancy moment. No grand announcement. But right then, I knew we were us. Finally.

We were officially together.

The next morning at school, everything felt different. His hand brushed against mine in the hallway, and for the first time, I didn’t pull away.

When we sat down at lunch, he didn’t do the “guess who?” routine. He just leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “You smell like my hoodie.”

“I’m wearing it again,” I said.

“I noticed. Looks better on you.”

Our friends didn’t even ask. I think they knew before we did. There was something unspoken between us, even when we were silent. Especially then.

Later that afternoon, we walked home together, just the two of us. Our hands were intertwined the whole way — like it had always been that way. Like the world had finally caught up to what we already knew.

That night, he texted me again.

“I keep thinking about your lips.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t kissed them yet. And I want to. Really badly.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“You tell me.”

I smiled so hard it hurt.

“Nothing’s stopping me either.”

I went to sleep that night feeling like my heart had finally stopped holding its breath.

It wasn’t the fantasy that stayed with me — though God, that message had burned itself into my skin — it was the way he saw me. Desired me. Not for what I gave him, but for who I was.

And for the first time in my life, I felt wanted. Not just liked. Not just looked at.

But wanted. Completely.

And that…

That changed everything.