Miss You
865 Words
The morning after their late-night rendezvous, Shay’s alarm blared at 7:15 a.m.—loud, rude, and completely unnecessary. She groaned, burying her face into the pillow as if that would somehow erase the heat still clinging to her skin.
Cairo’s scent lingered on her hoodie. He hadn’t stayed the night. He never did. But the imprint of him—his hands, his lips, the soft weight of his breath against her collarbone—was tattooed on her body like a secret.
She sat up slowly, legs still buzzing, and ran a hand through her curls. There was an ache deep in her chest, the kind that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation or class stress.
It was the ache of wanting more and not knowing if she was allowed to ask for it.
Her phone buzzed.
Cairo: “You make it home okay?”
Shay: “Yeah. You?”
Cairo: “I’m good. Last night was… a lot.”
She stared at the message. “A lot.”
Not “good.”
Not “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Just a lot.
She sighed, typing back:
Shay: “Yeah. Same.”
⸻
The campus was loud and chaotic by mid-morning, a blur of backpacks and rushing feet. Shay moved on autopilot through her biochem class, half-listening, half-replaying every detail of Cairo’s hands, his voice, the way he looked at her like she was both a miracle and a mistake.
And still, he hadn’t texted again.
She wanted to scream at herself for caring so much. For letting him crawl under her skin. For wanting more from a boy who had already told her—with his distance, with his silence—that he wasn’t sure if he could give it.
⸻
By the time Shay made it back to her dorm, her head was pounding.
She dumped her bag on the floor and kicked off her sneakers. Before she could collapse onto her bed, the door flew open.
“Okay, who do I need to fight?” her roommate, Tasha, announced, holding a bag of Takis and a bottle of ginger ale like it was a weapon.
Shay blinked. “What?”
Tasha plopped onto Shay’s bed like she lived there. “You look like you’ve been ghosted, emotionally sucker-punched, and lightly steamrolled by someone who probably smells like cologne and commitment issues.”
Shay blinked again. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“I’m psychic when it comes to men and my girls,” Tasha said, tossing her the drink. “Spill.”
Shay sat beside her, groaning. “It’s Cairo.”
“Of course it’s Cairo. What did tall, brooding, and tragic do now?”
“We made out. A lot. It was—intense. And then he texted me like it was no big deal and disappeared.”
Tasha shook her head dramatically. “Girl. That man’s whole vibe screams ‘I’ll kiss you like a poem and then emotionally retreat to my trauma cave.’ You need to brace for that.”
Shay gave a half-laugh. “I know. I just… I like him.”
“Of course you do. You’ve got that ‘fix a man’ energy. But here’s the thing: You can’t build a home in a dude’s emotional rubble. He has to clean it up first.”
Shay stared at the ceiling. “What if I’m just as broken?”
Tasha looked at her. “Then you better make sure y’all aren’t building your foundation out of cracks.”
⸻
Later that night, as the sky dimmed and campus lights flickered on, Shay sat on a bench outside the student union. Her laptop was open, but she wasn’t typing.
Instead, she scrolled through old messages from Cairo.
Some flirty. Some deep. Some unreadable.
She hated that she missed him already.
Her phone buzzed.
Cairo: “You free?”
Her heart stuttered.
Shay: “Maybe.”
Cairo: “Meet me at the greenhouse behind the science building. 20 mins?”
⸻
Shay arrived just after dark. The greenhouse was empty, quiet, bathed in a soft amber glow from the overhead lamps. Plants lined every corner, dew glistening on leaves. It smelled like earth and peace.
Cairo stood near a cluster of orchids, hands in his pockets.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.
“I almost didn’t,” Shay replied.
He nodded. “I deserved that.”
They stood in silence, the air between them heavy.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Cairo said.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t know how. Last night was…” He exhaled. “Everything. But it scared me.”
Shay crossed her arms. “You can’t keep doing this. Pulling me in, then pushing me away.”
“I know.”
“Then do better.”
He took a step closer. “I want to. I want you.”
Her heart cracked open at the edges.
“You don’t get to say that unless you mean it.”
“I do.”
Then his hand found hers.
And in that humid, glowing greenhouse, something shifted again.
Still fragile.
Still messy.
But real.
- Writer
