MEETING HIM

Chapter twelve: The Struggle Within

Alex’s POV

The message came through late at night, just as Alex was about to light another cigarette. He sat at the edge of his bed, his phone in one hand, the lighter in the other. The tension in his shoulders eased as he read the single word:

“Okay.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Natacha since that night. The way she had looked at him—equal parts curiosity and defiance—had stayed with him like an imprint. She wasn’t like the other girls he’d known, the ones who fawned over his bad-boy persona or tried to "fix" him. Natacha was a puzzle, a mix of vulnerability and fire, and it drove him insane.

But the guilt was there too, lurking beneath the surface. He knew she had a boyfriend. Eric was everything Alex wasn’t—stable, reliable, the kind of guy parents wanted their daughters to date. The kind of guy Alex could never be.

He told himself he didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. But it did.

And now, with her message glowing on his screen, the knot in his chest loosened just a bit. He put out the unlit cigarette and leaned back against the headboard, his mind racing.

---

The next day, Alex skipped his morning classes. He wasn’t one for school anyway. Teachers rarely called on him anymore—they’d long since written him off as a lost cause. Alex didn’t mind. He’d never seen the point in textbooks and homework when the real world didn’t give you neat questions or answers.

But today, it wasn’t just boredom keeping him away from class. His mind was elsewhere, tangled up in thoughts of Natacha. He couldn’t shake the memory of her voice, the way it had trembled when she whispered his name that night.

He sent her a message around noon.

“Where can we meet?”

It took her over an hour to reply.

“Coffee shop on 5th. 4 PM.”

Alex smirked. Straight to the point. No small talk, no pleasantries. It was one of the things he liked about her.

By the time 4 PM rolled around, Alex was already waiting at a corner table, nursing a black coffee. The place was half-empty, the low hum of conversation filling the space. He tapped his fingers against the table, glancing at the door every few seconds.

When she finally walked in, his breath caught.

She looked different—more guarded, maybe. Her shoulders were hunched, her lips pressed into a tight line. But she was still Natacha, with her wild curls and piercing eyes, and Alex felt that same pull he always did when she was around.

“Natacha,” he said as she approached the table.

She slid into the seat across from him, avoiding his gaze. “Hi.”

He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, trying to fill the silence.

She shrugged. “Fine.”

Alex sighed, leaning forward. “Look, I’m not great at this… talking thing. But I wanted to see you. I wanted to know if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” she said again, her voice sharper this time. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because of what happened,” he said quietly. “That night…”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, he saw the storm raging inside her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alex nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. We don’t have to talk about it. But you don’t have to shut me out, either.”

“I’m not shutting you out,” she said, but her tone lacked conviction.

He studied her for a moment, trying to figure out what she wasn’t saying. “Is it Eric?”

Her flinch was subtle, but he caught it.

“What about Eric?” she asked defensively.

Alex shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re feeling guilty. Maybe you’re trying to make things work with him.”

Natacha’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t about Eric.”

“Then what is it about?” he pressed.

She hesitated, her fingers curling into fists on the table. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Alex. I don’t know what I want.”

Alex’s chest tightened. He wanted to reach across the table, to take her hand, to tell her that it was okay to not have all the answers. But he didn’t. He knew better than to push her when she was like this.

“Whatever it is,” he said softly, “you don’t have to figure it out alone.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment, he thought she might actually let him in. But then she shook her head and stood up.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Natacha—”

“I’ll see you around, Alex.”

And just like that, she was gone, leaving Alex alone with his coffee and the gnawing feeling that he had just let something important slip through his fingers.

---

The days that followed were a blur of frustration and restlessness. Alex tried to distract himself—school, parties, even getting into a fight at the park—but nothing seemed to help. Natacha was everywhere, invading his thoughts and dreams, her voice a constant echo in his mind.

His friends noticed the change in him, of course. Jake, his oldest friend, called him out on it one afternoon.

“What’s your deal lately?” Jake asked, tossing a basketball between his hands.

Alex shrugged, leaning against the chain-link fence of the school court. “No deal.”

“Bull,” Jake said. “You’ve been acting weird ever since that party. What happened with that girl?”

Alex stiffened. “Nothing happened.”

Jake snorted. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”

Alex shot him a warning look, but Jake just laughed.

“Come on, man,” Jake said. “I’m not judging. Just tell me what’s going on.”

For a moment, Alex considered opening up. But the thought of putting his feelings into words made his skin crawl.

“Drop it, Jake,” he said instead, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Jake held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t try.”

---

One evening, Alex found himself standing outside Natacha’s house. It was a stupid idea, showing up unannounced, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to see her, to hear her voice, to figure out what the hell was going on between them.

He knocked on the door, his heart pounding.

When the door opened, it wasn’t Natacha who answered. It was Mr. Delacroix.

Alex blinked in surprise. “Uh, hi. Is Natacha home?”

Mr. Delacroix raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. “And you are?”

“Alex,” he said quickly. “I’m a… friend.”

Delacroix’s lips curved into a faint smile. “A friend, huh?”

Alex shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. There was something about the man that was both intimidating and disarming, and it made Alex feel like he was being sized up.

“She’s not here,” Delacroix said after a moment.

“Oh,” Alex said, trying to hide his disappointment. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“No,” Delacroix said simply. “But I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

“Thanks,” Alex mumbled, turning to leave.

“Alex,” Delacroix called after him.

He turned back, his eyebrows raised.

“Take care of yourself,” Delacroix said, his tone oddly sincere.

Alex nodded, not sure what to make of the interaction, and walked away.

---

That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Alex couldn’t stop thinking about the look in Delacroix’s eyes. There was something familiar about it, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

But more than that, he couldn’t stop thinking about Natacha.

He didn’t know where this was going, or if it was going anywhere at all. All he knew was that he couldn’t let it go.

Not yet.