I stare at my keyboard and allow my fingers to idle above the digits. My fingers take their time in typing out the number written at the top of my old Chem study guide. I make my way to the message box and hesitate yet again, only to type out the two numbers. My thumb hovers above the send button before I huff quietly and drop my phone onto my chest.
Do I really need to text him? Giving him my number gives him the power to contact me as often as he wants. It won't just be running into him once or twice a week coincidentally. What if I get attached to him? I've never been friends with someone I want to sleep with. The last thing I need is to get used to this boy. He'll probably realize I'm not as cool as he made me out to be and stop talking to me, which will definitely hurt.
I stare at
