He's Not Who I Texted

Chapter 7 - Notes, Nerves, and the Unknown Romeo

The next day, I was officially a wreck.

Not a “forgot my homework” wreck.

A “can’t stop thinking about mystery boy with smooth texts and possible hoodie collection” wreck.

My brain? Gone.

My focus? Nonexistent.

My heart? Hosting a Beyoncé concert in my chest every time my phone buzzed.

Which… it did. A lot.

UNKNOWN:

“You looked cute tripping up the stairs earlier.”

I froze mid-step, almost tripping AGAIN. Was this man everywhere?

Me:

“I didn’t trip. I stumbled with purpose.”

UNKNOWN:

“You stumbled like a newborn giraffe.”

Me:

“Bold words for someone hiding behind a contact name that looks like a panic emoji.”

UNKNOWN:

“Want a clue?”

Me:

“Obviously.”

UNKNOWN:

“Locker 238. Top shelf. Be cool.”

Oh.

OH.

I turned to Tasha like she just proposed marriage.

“He left something in my locker.”

She squealed so loud two freshmen jumped.

We practically sprinted to the hallway. I was full-blown nervous giggles and sweaty palms.

Locker 238 opened with a creak. And there it was:

A folded piece of paper.

Tasha hovered behind me like we were defusing a bomb. “If this is a love letter, I will cry right here.”

I unfolded it. Heart in throat.

It wasn’t a letter.

It was a map.

A literal, hand-drawn map of our school. With a tiny red X by the old music room.

Tasha: “Is he a romantic or a serial killer?”

Me: “Both. I’m obsessed.”

So of course, we followed it. We had to. Duh.

The old music room had been locked for years, but the back door?

Totally open.

And inside, sitting neatly on a dusty chair, was a mini box with a sticky note on top:

“For Sky. But no peeking till you’re alone.”

Tasha vibrated with excitement. “Girl. This is some ‘To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before’ level stuff.”

“I need therapy,” I whispered, holding the box like it was a precious gem.

Back in the bathroom stall (aka the safest place on Earth for dramatic teen girl discoveries), I opened the box.

Inside?

A single candy ring.

And a note.

“To match your sweetness. No, that’s not a line. Okay maybe it is. But still. Wear it if you’re ready to play my next game.”

I squealed. In a stall.

Romance level: chaotic, cheesy, and completely working.

I slipped the ring on, grinning like an i***t.

Me (texting):

“You're dangerous.”

UNKNOWN:

“Only to hearts.”

Oh.

He needed to chill. I needed to chill.

But I didn’t want to.