5 Dangerous closeness

The next day, I tried my best to avoid him. I walked the long way to class, kept my head down, and even pretended to be engrossed in my notebook during lunch. I told myself that if I didn’t see him, I wouldn’t have to deal with him. That was my plan.

It failed almost immediately.

By the time I reached the cafeteria, he was there. Waiting. At my table. My stomach twisted, my chest tightened, and I told myself it was hate. Pure, unadulterated hate. But the truth—what I refused to admit—was something else entirely.

“I brought you something,” he said, holding a bag of food. His smirk was infuriating, like he already knew it would get a reaction.

“I don’t want it,” I said, glaring, ready to shove it away.

“You’re going to eat it anyway,” he said, leaning closer than necessary, his gaze fixed on me.

I slammed the bag to the floor in a show of defiance. My hands shook, my face burned, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

Then, when he wasn’t looking, I picked it up quietly. I ate it. Every single bite.

I hated myself.

I hated that I was starving. I hated that I cared enough to eat his food in secret. I hated that a small, stubborn part of me wanted him to notice, even if I would never admit it.

He did notice. I could see it in the way he smirked when I finished, the slight tilt of his head, the almost imperceptible sparkle in his eyes. And somehow, it made my chest ache even more.

Throughout the day, his messages came nonstop. Teasing, demanding, obsessive. Are you okay? Did you eat? Stop pretending you hate me. I ignored most of them, though a tiny, guilty part of me wanted to answer. Wanted to see what he would do next.

By mid-afternoon, I realized he had followed me to the library. Quietly, unobtrusively, like a shadow. I wanted to scream at him, to throw him out. But instead, I froze. Because he had this way of making you forget the world, even when all you wanted was to hate him.

He leaned against the shelf near my table. Just watching. Silent, patient, waiting for me to react. I felt my fingers tighten around my pencil, my chest tightening with every second.

“You’re impossible,” he said quietly, almost to himself, though I heard it perfectly. “And you know it.”

I glared at him. “I’m not.”

“Don’t lie,” he said, stepping just a fraction closer, enough to make me shift in my seat. “You know you want to fight me… and maybe a little more than that.”

I froze. My mouth opened to protest, but no words came. My heart was hammering, my face hot, and my body refused to move. I hated that he had this effect on me. I hated that I wanted to react to him instead of just pushing him away.

Then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone, leaving me trembling and breathless, staring after him.

And in the quiet of the library, one thought lingered like a warning:

This isn’t hate anymore. Not entirely. And whatever this is… it’s dangerous.