WHEN THE WRONG BOY TEXTED ME

CHAPTER-4 "THE NIGHT EVERYTHING CHANGED"

Five days after the first accidental text, my phone buzzed again at 1:13 a.m..

“I’m outside.”

I froze. My stomach dropped. No sane human would text someone at this hour, much less show up outside their building. My first instinct screamed: Ignore it. Run. Call the cops if needed.

But another part—the foolish, reckless part of me—felt an impossible pull. My chest tightened, heart hammering. That pull had a name: Kian.

Eva: “Outside where?!” I typed, fingers trembling.

“Your building,” he replied casually.

I almost dropped my phone. Who does this? I thought, panic and curiosity wrestling in my chest.

Eva: “ARE YOU MAD?!”

“Probably,” he replied.

Eva: “GO HOME.”

“Just come downstairs for one minute. I won’t do anything stupid.”

Every logical cell in my brain screamed NO. But the part of me that had been secretly craving a spark of chaos over the last week—over the last month—whispered: Just one minute. Just see his face once.

I threw on a hoodie, stomped down the stairs, and peered outside.

There he was.

Under the faint glow of the streetlight, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, hair messy from whatever he had been doing. His expression was unreadable—tired, wary, and somehow… warm. My breath caught. He looked even better in real life than in the photo. Unfairly, unbelievably good-looking.

“That’s… you?” he asked softly.

“Yes. That’s me,” I mumbled, trying to act casual even though my heart was threatening to leap from my chest.

Silence stretched. A dangerous, electric kind of silence where every heartbeat sounds loud.

Then he said, “I didn’t come to flirt.”

“Good,” I lied automatically. My chest was too fast for logic anyway.

“I came because I felt like I owe you a goodbye,” he continued, voice low. “You helped me… without even knowing me.”

Goodbye. That word should have made me relieved. Instead, it felt like someone had slammed a door inside my chest.

“That’s it?” I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

“What else can there be?” he whispered, shoulders tense.

I didn’t answer.

We stood there under the streetlight, the quiet hum of the city around us, pretending that this wasn’t the closest we’d ever been to something impossible. I wanted to run, I wanted to stay, I wanted to tell him everything, and I wanted to say nothing at all.

He stepped back, hands falling to his sides.

“I should go,” he said softly.

“Okay,” I whispered, my throat tight.

“Take care, Eva.”

“You too,” I managed.

And then—three steps.

He froze.

He turned back, eyes locking with mine. Something flickered in them—hesitation, longing, fear.

“Tell me not to go,” he murmured.

My heartbeat went crazy. My mind screamed Say it, say it!, but my lips betrayed me. I said nothing.

His jaw tightened. He nodded once and walked away.

I watched him disappear into the night.

The city felt colder, emptier after he left. My chest ached in a way that scared me. And yet, buried under the panic, confusion, and frustration, I felt a spark—the kind that only someone impossible can ignite.

I climbed back to my apartment, heart racing, mind spinning. My rational brain shouted: He’s trouble. He’s not yours. You barely know him.

But my heart whispered: And yet, maybe he already is.

That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside, replaying every moment. Every glance. Every word. Every tiny pause between his sentences.

I knew, deep down, that my life had changed. Not drastically, not in obvious ways—but in ways that mattered. The storm that was Kian had arrived. And somehow, I wanted to be caught in it.