Boundaries

6

Hey Matthew,

Okay, so, uh… I’m writing this because I felt bad about, you know, the bike thing. Like, seriously bad. We weren’t trying to break it or anything—it just kind of happened. Not that that’s an excuse! Oh man, this is already coming out wrong. What I mean is, we didn’t really see it there when we were moving, and then… yeah. Total disaster. Sorry.

I’ve been thinking about it all week, and honestly, my brain won’t let me not think about it. You ever have that? Like, when something just loops in your head on repeat? Anyway, I’m sorry. And I know saying sorry doesn’t magically fix your bike. If I could fix it, I would, but I’m not exactly handy with tools. Actually, I once tried fixing my own skateboard, and let’s just say I ended up with a wheel in my hand and no clue what to do with it. Not the point—sorry, I’m rambling.

I never would have imagined that so much damage would be done or that you would be the owner (also not an excuse). But I’m not an evil person—really. Especially since you’re looking after my dog. I wouldn’t want us to be on bad terms.

I also came by the shelter a couple of times, but you weren’t there. I hope you’re okay—really. I also tried talking to you a couple of times, but it seems like you’re avoiding me. Not that I blame you either.

Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry. Again. For, like, all of it. The bike, the awkwardness, the whole vibe. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not usually this much of a mess (okay, maybe I am), but I don’t want you to think I’m always like this.

So... yeah. If you want, maybe we could talk or something? Or not. Totally up to you.

Uh, okay, I’ll stop now before this gets even longer. Sorry again.

The first thing I thought when I saw the letter was: Great, now my locker’s a mailbox for bad decisions. Seriously, who does that? It wasn’t even folded properly—just crumpled like whoever wrote it had a crisis halfway through.

I opened it anyway because, well, curiosity kills cats and ruins my lunch breaks.

The handwriting wasn’t half bad. Annoyingly neat, actually. Better than mine, which just felt like an insult on top of the bike incident.

As I read, my brain spiraled. Unsigned? Bold move. I couldn’t tell if this was guilt, an apology, or the world’s worst attempt at flirting.

But I knew who penned the letter—the talk about the shelter was a dead giveaway. But how did he even get it in there?

Did Feral, of all people, memorize my combination?

Or maybe he bribed one of the janitors. Yeah, that seemed more his style—smug, annoyingly charming, and completely unapologetic!

Then again, he wrote me a letter. A letter! Who does that? It was weirdly… sweet.

Almost.

Like, in a “stumbling-over-himself-to-sound-sincere-but-still-kind-of-an-i***t” way. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to thank him or throw it at his head.

In class, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every time the teacher’s voice droned on, my mind drifted back to the neat handwriting and how much effort it must’ve taken for him to actually write something that long. Not to mention, how did he even sneak it into my locker? Did he time it when the hallways were clear? Was there a lookout involved? My brain went on a full heist-movie tangent, complete with Feral wearing a ski mask and dodging laser beams.

By the time the bell rang, I’d convinced myself he was part ninja.

After school, I swung by my locker to grab my math book. That’s when I saw a shadowy figure, crouched at my locker, pen in hand.

“What are you doing?”

He froze, wide-eyed, like a raccoon caught raiding a trash can. “Uh… hey?”

I folded my arms, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously. What. Are. You. Doing?”

He stood slowly, holding the letter out like it was some kind of peace offering. “I, uh, forgot to sign it.”

Of course he did. Because that was the problem here. Not the fact that he was touching my locker or the fact that he was standing way too close for my liking.

“Right. Well, now you don’t have to,” I said, stepping back.

He looked at me, his grin faltering slightly. “Are you okay? I mean, with the whole… bike thing?”

I nodded. “Fine.”

“Really?” He didn’t believe it, but that was his problem.

“Yes.”

He tilted his head, clearly not buying it. “You sure? Because you seem kinda—”

“Fine,” I snapped, cutting him off. My hands were balled into fists, my palms sweaty despite the freezing weather. I just wanted to grab my book and go, but his presence was like this annoying gravity I couldn’t escape.

“Okay, okay,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. Then, of course, he ruined it by adding, “Do you want to grab coffee or something? My treat.”

I blinked at him. Did he really just ask me out? “No.”

“Tea, then? Hot chocolate? A smoothie?” He was grinning now, like this was some kind of game.

“No,” I said again, my voice flat.

“Ouch. Harsh.” He clutched his chest dramatically. “Okay, what about a ride? To work or something?”

“No.”

“Home, then?”

I opened my mouth to say no again but hesitated. Walking home would take forever, and I wasn’t in the mood to freeze my butt off. Still, the idea of being in a car with him made my skin crawl.

“Fine,” I muttered, hating how reluctant I sounded.

“Cool.” He smiled, looking way too smug.

The walk to his car was awkward, mostly because I kept a good three feet between us the entire time. He noticed—of course, he did—but didn’t say anything. Points for that, I guess.

When we got to the car, he opened the passenger door for me. I hesitated, staring at it like it might bite me.

“Uh, you okay?” he asked, leaning casually against the car.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, sliding in as quickly as I could without brushing against him. My heart was pounding, my chest tight, but I focused on the dashboard, counting the tiny scratches on the plastic until I calmed down.

The silence stretched out between us as he started the car. For a second, I thought I might survive the ride without any small talk, but then he opened his mouth.

“You smell nice,” he said, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

I blinked at him, heat rushing to my face. “What?”

“Nothing!” he said quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “I mean, not nothing. Just, uh, you smell good. Not in a creepy way! Like, you know, soap or something. Clean. It’s nice.”

I stared out the window, pretending I hadn’t heard him. My fingers dug into my thighs as I willed the ride to end.

Then he did the unthinkable. His hand shifted off the wheel, reaching toward me. My chest tightened, and I pressed myself as far back into the seat as I could without looking like a total lunatic.

“Relax,” he said softly, his voice dipping just enough to make my stomach flip. “I was just going to—”

“Don’t,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

He froze, his hand hovering in the space between us. “Okay. Sorry.”

The rest of the ride was awkward and painfully quiet. When he finally pulled up to my house, I practically bolted out of the car.

“Thanks,” I muttered, not looking back as I headed up the driveway.

“Anytime. And if you change your mind about, uh, you know, getting something to eat, then…” he trailed off.

"I'll think about it " i lied, eager to rush into the house and hide in the confines of my bedroom