WHEN THE WRONG BOY TEXTED ME

If someone asked me when my life flipped upside down, I’d say it was 6:42 p.m. on a Tuesday—a Tuesday that smelled faintly of rain and leftover chocolate from my lunch. I was slumped on my bed, staring at my Maths homework like it was some ancient artifact written in a language I didn’t understand. Numbers, equations, and imaginary symbols mocked me. Honestly, I was close to tears. Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. My first instinct? Ignore it. But something—a stupid curiosity—made me glance at the screen. “I miss you. And if you don’t open the door in 10 seconds, I’m climbing in through the balcony.” I froze. My brain went blank. What door? What balcony? And who… what… seriously? Before I could reply, another message came: “You can block me later. Just talk to me once.” Desperation radiated through the tiny screen. I was almost impressed by the audacity… almost. I typed, hands shaking: Eva: “Wrong number.” Three seconds later, my phone rang. Video call request. Absolutely not. I pressed decline. Then a picture popped up. My breath hitched. The guy in the photo… wow. Tousled black hair, sharp jawline, hoodie slung lazily over his shoulders, eyes that looked like they had been awake for 48 hours straight. Heart-stoppingly handsome. “Wait… you’re not Mia?” he typed. Eva: “Definitely not.” He sent: “Holy— I’ve been texting her old number. Sorry. Ignore everything. I’ll disappear now.” He didn’t disappear.