Whispers from Mister L

There were two kinds of girls at Aimee Reyes school. The ones who'd had their hearts broken once or twice. And the ones who hadn't even held a hand long enough to call it romance. She was the second kind. Eighteen. Never kissed. Never touched. Never been called babe or had her phone light up with a name that made her stomach flip. Boys noticed her, sometimes. But in the kind of way you notice the music playing in a bookstore—soft, pretty, forgettable. She didn't mind. Or at least, that's what she told herself. She read more than she spoke. Drew quiet things in the margins of her notebooks and spent her evenings wrapped in sweaters that still smelled like laundry soap. Her world was small, quiet, carefully controlled. Her friends called it calm. Riley, her best friend, called it something else entirely. "Tragic," she said one afternoon, waving Aimee's phone like it was a lost cause. "You're literally the last virgin standing in this school." Aimee had rolled her eyes, cheeks warm. "That's not true." "Aims," Riley deadpanned, "you blush when someone calls you 'miss' at the pharmacy." That earned a soft, defensive laugh. "I'm just polite." "You're repressed." Aimee had been half-laughing, half-embarrassed when Riley downloaded the app. "TapTalk," she'd said with a smirk. "You click start, someone random shows up. You can skip, chat, flirt, block. It's harmless. Some of them are hot. Most are losers. But it's fun." Aimee had stared at the icon, unimpressed. "Sounds creepy." "Sounds like exactly what you need," Riley shoved the phone back into her hands. "Don't do anything weird. Just talk. You can even lie and pretend you've done things before. They won't know." She never deleted the app. But she didn't open it either. Not until two nights later. It was past midnight, and the silence was louder than usual. The kind that wrapped around her like a weighted blanket and made her more aware of how still she was. The house was quiet. Her room was dark except for the faint glow of her fairy lights and the soft blue tint of her phone screen. She hadn't meant to think about it. But the app was still there—untouched, glowing, waiting. She tapped it with her thumb before she could talk herself out of it. Loading... Then: Searching for a connection... Her heart picked up. She wrapped her blanket tighter around herself, legs folded beneath her. The screen blinked once. You're now connected A message appeared seconds later. Stranger: Hey. Her heart thumped. It was just a word. Just text. But it felt... different. She stared at it. Typed: "Hi." Then deleted it. Rewrote it. "Hello?" No. That felt too formal. Finally, she just settled on: "hi" ...lowercase. Like a whisper. Stranger: New here? Aimee: Yes. My friend made me try this. Stranger: Made you? Sounds like blackmail. She smiled a little. The kind you didn't even realize was forming until your cheeks warmed. Aimee: She thinks I'm too boring. Stranger: Are you? Aimee: Maybe. I guess I don't talk to strangers a lot. Stranger: Good. Makes you interesting. Amie paused. Was that... flirting? Stranger: So what are you here for? Aimee: Nothing serious. I'm just... curious. Stranger: Curious is dangerous here, sweetheart. The word made her freeze. Sweetheart? Was that normal? Was she supposed to reply the same way? Aimee: Is that bad? Stranger: No. It's refreshing. Stranger: Most girls here flirt, tease, send pics, or ask for one. You're different. Honest. A little shy. I like that. Aimee: I think I just don't know how this works. Stranger: That's obvious. A beat. Stranger: You're really untouched, huh? She didn't answer immediately. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Was she supposed to deny it? Pretend? Aimee: Is that weird? Stranger: No. Stranger: It's... rare. She didn't know why, but her cheeks burned again. Stranger: I could teach you. If you let me. There it was again-that teasing tone. Not pushy, but heavy with suggestion. Aimee: Teach me what? Stranger: Everything. There was a pause. A silence. Not the awkward kind—but the kind where both sides were watching the other carefully. Stranger: Are you blushing right now? She blinked in shock. Aimee: W—Why would I be?? Stranger: Because I said I could teach you. And now you're probably curling your toes under your blanket and hiding your face with your pillow. She looked down at her blanket. He was... right. She pulled it over her mouth like he could see her through the screen. Aimee: You're creepy. Stranger: I prefer "good at reading people." Another message popped up right after. Stranger: You're sweet. But sweet girls shouldn't be on this app. Aimee: Should I delete it then? Stranger: Not yet. She waited for more. Stranger: Not while I'm still here. Aimee locked her phone screen, heart pounding in her ears. That last message echoed in her head. She didn't know his name. Didn't know what he looked like. Didn't even know if he was serious or just... playing with her. But something about the way he typed. The way he saw her. It made her want to tap Start again. Maybe tomorrow night. - She didn't open the app the next day. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But every time her thumb hovered over the glowing blue icon, her heart would stutter. She'd tell herself it was stupid. Silly. That she was overthinking a conversation with a stranger whose name she didn't even know. And yet... The moment she woke up, her first instinct was to check. Not for a message but just to see if the app was still there. Still glowing. Still waiting. She'd scroll through her phone pretending to look at something else. Messages. Weather. A photo of her and Riley from last summer. But her eyes always drifted back. That soft blue icon pulsed like a secret she wasn't sure she was ready to keep. She chewed her thumbnail. Threw the blanket off. Turned the screen over. But then an hour later, she'd pick it up again—screen unlocked, thumb hovering just above it. It was just a stranger. But his words... stayed. "You're sweet. But sweet girls shouldn't be on this app." "Not while I'm still here." Why did that make her feel something? It wasn't love. Not even close. It was... attention. The kind she'd never had before. She found herself lying in bed the next night, her screen dimmed, heart louder than her breathing. Tap. 'Start.' It blinked. Connecting... A message popped up before the name even loaded. Stranger: Back again, sweetheart? Her lips parted slightly. Same guy. She couldn't help but smile. Aimee: You again? Stranger: You remembered me. Aimee: Hard not to. You were kind of intense. Stranger: I was being nice. Aimee: You said I didn't belong here. Stranger: You don't. But that's what makes this fun. She hesitated. Then typed: Aimee: What's your name? Three dots. Then nothing. He was typing. And then stopping. And then typing again. Stranger: Names are dangerous here. Sweetheart. Aimee: You sound older. Stranger: Do I? Aimee: A little. Stranger: Does that bother you? She paused. Then, trying not to sound too naive: Aimee: Should it? The reply came slower this time. Stranger: How old are you? She hesitated. But something about the quiet steadiness in his tone made her trust him. Aimee: Eighteen There was another pause. Then: Stanger: You're younger than I expected. Aimee: How old are you? Stranger: Older. She rolled her eyes and smirked a little, even if he couldn't see it. Aimee: That's vague. Stranger: It's honest. Aimee: Should I just call you Mister then? She was joking, kind of. But there was something about it that fit. He replied almost instantly. Stranger: You can. If you want. "Mister." She typed it again, just to see how it felt. Then another message came through: Stranger: Or Mister L, if you're feeling bold. She tilted her head. Aimee: Mister L? Aimee: Is that your real initial? Mister L: Maybe. Aimee: It sounds like a proper title. Like a character in a book who ruins girls with eye contact. That made her blush. Hard. She pulled the blanket higher over her chest, like he could somehow see through her screen. Aimee: You want mine? Mister L: Sure, if you don't mind. Amiee: Aimee. Mister L: Aimee. Mister L: Sounds soft. Like someone who'd write letters with perfume on them and wait three days for a reply. Aimee: Maybe I would. Mister L: You would. I can already tell. There was a pause before his next message. Mister L: So, Aimee... what did you think about last night? She stared at the question. Aimee: It was weird. But kind of exciting. Mister L: Because it was new? Or because it felt like I saw something in you? Her heart skipped. That was the thing about him. He didn't just ask boring, shallow questions. He went straight under the skin. Aimee: I don't know. I guess... no one's ever talked to me that way. Mister L: You mean sexually? Her breath hitched. She didn't know how to reply. She hadn't even said that word aloud before—not in that context. Aimee: I guess... yeah. Mister L: And how did it make you feel? She looked at the glow of her screen. Her thighs pressed together without meaning to. Aimee: Confused. Nervous. Curious. Mister L: That's what I love most about innocence. Mister L: It's honest. It doesn't pretend to know. It just feels. Raw. Unfiltered. Mister L: Are you blushing again? She stared at the screen in disbelief. Aimee: How do you always know that?? Mister L: Because I've met hundreds of girls here, Aimee. I know when someone's faking it. I also know when someone's learning... in real time. Mister L: Like you are. Aimee: I'm not learning anything! Mister L: Oh, but you are. You're thinking about things you've never thought about before, aren't you? She bit her lip. Her body was warm. The kind of warmth that made her aware of her limbs. Her skin. The spot between her thighs that suddenly felt far too awake. She adjusted her blanket and didn't reply. Mister L: Did I say something wrong? Aimee: No. I just don't know what to say. Mister L: That's okay. You don't have to perform. Mister L: I just want to talk. Another pause. Then: Mister L: Tell me a secret. She blinked. Aimee: What kind of secret? Mister L: Something no one else knows. Something real. She hesitated. Then typed: Aimee: I always pretend I'm fine being alone. But sometimes, I imagine someone texting me just to say they miss me. She didn't expect herself to send it. But once she did, she felt... lighter. His reply took longer this time. Mister L: That's not a small secret, Amie. That's a heartbreak waiting quietly. Her throat tightened. Mister L: If I texted you tomorrow... and said I missed you, would that count? She didn't trust her voice. Not even the sound of her own thoughts. So she just typed: Aimee: Maybe. Mister L: Then maybe I will. A small grin tugged at her lips. And then- Mister L: Can I ask you something? Aimee: Okay. Mister L: Have you ever touched yourself before?