Four
1444 Words
Mia pov
I didn’t sleep that night.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second. The way he leaned in. The way his breath felt on my lips. The way Nicole's voice cut through everything like a blade.
The way I ran.
I told myself I was being smart. Protecting myself. Keeping my distance. But the truth is simpler and more embarrassing: I was scared.
Scared of wanting him. Scared of him wanting me back. Scared of what that would mean.
Because boys like Alex Sullivan don't want girls like me. That's not self-pity. That's just statistics. I've seen the girls he dates. I've seen the girls he looks at. Thin. Blonde. Polished. Everything I'm not.
So why did he almost kiss me?
I roll over, punch my pillow, and try to force myself to sleep.
It doesn't work.
Tuesday is a blur. I go to class. I take notes. I pretend to listen. But my mind keeps drifting back to the library. To his hand on mine. To the space between us that got smaller and smaller until there was almost nothing left.
I skip dinner. I'm not hungry.
By Wednesday, I've convinced myself I imagined the whole thing. The almost-kiss. The tension. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
I was reading into things. That's what I do. I see signs where there aren't any. I hope for things that won't happen. I've been doing it my whole life, and it's always ended the same way.
Disappointment.
So I walk into the library at 2:55 with my walls up high. My armor on. My face carefully blank.
He's already there.
Sitting in our corner. Our table. My spot. He's got coffee. Two cups. One for him. One for me.
"Caramel latte," he says, pushing it toward me. "Your one splurge."
"I told you that once."
"You told me that last week." He shrugs. "I remember things."
I take the coffee. I don't say thank you. I don't want to encourage him.
"Let's get started," I say, pulling out my notebook. "We have a lot to cover."
"Mia."
"Your thesis statement needs work. You're trying to argue that Heathcliff's environment shaped him, but you're not connecting it to the bigger theme—"
"Mia."
"—of the novel. You need to show how Bronte is making a larger point about class and—"
"Mia. Look at me."
I look up.
He's watching me. His eyes are steady. Calm. Like he's been waiting for this.
"I'm sorry," he says. "For what happened. For Nicole. For all of it."
"Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault."
"It was my fault she was there. It was my fault she said those things. I should have stopped her sooner. I should have—"
"You can't control what other people say."
"I can control what I do." He leans forward. "And what I do is I want to keep seeing you. Not just for the tutoring. For you."
My heart stops. "Alex—"
"I know you don't believe me. I know you think this is just about the grades. But it's not. It was never just about the grades."
"Then what was it about?"
He runs a hand through his hair. Frustrated. Searching for words.
"I don't know how to explain it," he says. "I just... I saw you. In the library. And something clicked. Like I'd been walking around blind my whole life and suddenly I could see."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I know." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I know it doesn't make sense. I know I'm the last person you'd expect to say something like that. I know I've been an ass. I know I've ignored you for four years. But that doesn't change what I feel now."
"What do you feel?"
He looks at me. Really looks. Like he's trying to memorize my face.
"I don't know," he says. "Something. Something I've never felt before. Something real."
I want to believe him. I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
But I've been hurt before. I've been invisible before. I've been the girl who gets used and discarded, the girl who's good enough to help but not good enough to keep.
"I can't do this," I say.
"Do what?"
"This. Us. Whatever this is." I gesture between us. "I can't be your experiment. I can't be the girl you try out and then discard when you realize what people think."
"That's not what this is."
"Then what is it, Alex? Because I don't understand. I don't understand why you want me. I don't understand why you'd choose me over someone like Nicole. I don't understand any of it."
He's quiet for a moment. Then he reaches across the table and takes my hand.
"Nicole," he says slowly, "was easy. She was safe. She was what people expected me to want. But she never saw me. Not really. She saw the lacrosse jersey. She saw the name. She saw the money."
His thumb traces circles on my palm.
"You see me," he continues. "You see the real me. The scared me. The confused me. The me who doesn't know who he is outside of his father's expectations. And you don't run away from it. You stay."
"I'm a tutor. It's my job."
"It's not your job. You could have said no. You could have walked away a dozen times. But you didn't. You stayed. You stayed because you care."
I pull my hand away. "You don't know that."
"I know." He leans forward. "I know because I see you too. I see the girl who hides in the library because she's scared of being hurt. I see the girl who pretends she doesn't care but cares more than anyone I've ever met. I see the girl who's been invisible for so long she forgot how to be seen."
His words hit me like a punch to the chest.
"I don't need you to fix me," I say, my voice cracking. "I don't need you to save me."
"I'm not trying to save you." He reaches for my hand again. "I'm trying to be with you. That's all. Just be with you."
I stare at him. At this boy who's confused and scared and trying. At this boy who almost kissed me. At this boy who defended me against Nicole. At this boy who brought me coffee twice and remembered my order.
"One kiss," I say. "One kiss. And then we go back to tutoring."
His eyes widen. "What?"
"You heard me. One kiss. To see if there's actually something there. And then we focus on the work."
He doesn't hesitate. He moves faster than I expect. Around the table. In front of me. His hand tilts my chin up.
And then his lips are on mine.
Soft at first. Questioning. Like he's asking permission. I give it. I lean in. I let myself feel.
His hand moves to my waist. My hip. Pulling me closer. The kiss deepens. His tongue traces my lower lip. I open for him.
It's the best kiss of my life.
It's also the most terrifying.
I pull away. Breathless. Shaking.
"Okay," I say. "Okay. That was..."
"Yeah." He's breathing hard too. "Yeah."
"We should—" I gesture at the table. "We should get back to work."
"Right." He steps back. Runs a hand through his hair. "Work. Right."
I sit down. Open my notebook. Try to remember what we were talking about.
I can't.
He sits across from me. His eyes keep drifting to my lips.
"Your thesis statement," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "We need to work on your thesis statement."
"Right." He picks up his pen. "The thesis statement."
We stare at each other.
"Alex," I say.
"Yeah?"
"Don't kiss me again. Not during a session. It's not professional."
His mouth curves into that half-smile. "What about after the session?"
"Aren't you going to be late for practice?"
"I'll be late."
I shake my head. "Focus. We have work to do."
He grins. But he picks up his pen.
We get through the session. Barely. I can't concentrate. He can't either. We keep glancing at each other. Keep remembering.
When it's over, he stands up. Walks around the table.
"Mia."
"Alex."
He leans in. Kisses me again. Quick. Soft.
"Same time Friday," he says. "I'll bring coffee."
He walks away.
I watch him go.
My lips are tingling. My heart is racing. My whole body is humming with something I can't name.
This is a mistake.
- Writer
