Older, Wiser, Mine.

Chapter Four: When The Spark Won’t Light

Jay invites me out again.

This time, it’s different. No dorms, no shared kitchens, no distractions.

Just him, me, and a hotel room he’s already booked.

Movie night, he says. His treat.

He comes prepared—snacks, drinks, a speaker, even a blanket that smells like fabric softener and something woodsy. The room is cozy, the lights dimmed low, and he’s smiling like he’s proud of the setup. Like he’s showing me who he really is.

I sit on the bed, legs crossed, while he connects the speaker and presses play on some romantic comedy I don’t care about.

My eyes flick to the snacks—chocolate bars, small chops, chips and soft drinks.

He’s trying. I see it. I appreciate it.

But something inside me already feels… off.

I push the thought away.

We laugh at the same scenes, share popcorn, and our knees bump under the blanket. At some point, he turns to me, brushing my arm. The room goes quiet.

Then the shift happens.

His hand slides up my thigh, slow and sure. He leans in, his lips grazing my neck. I inhale sharply as he kisses behind my ear.

The way he touches me is confident—almost too confident.

Like he’s done this a thousand times. Like my body is a routine.

His hand dips under my shirt, warm fingers grazing skin, circling my waist like I’m something to be claimed.

I try to lean into it, try to feel something more than surface heat.

He’s kissing me now—deep, hungry, intentional. His body presses into mine, and he’s whispering things like, “You drive me crazy,” and “I’ve wanted this for weeks.”

His hand slips lower, fingers brushing against me over my panties.

But… I feel nothing.

I couldn’t want him like that.

Not because I didn’t crave connection. I did.

Not because I didn’t trust him. I half-did.

But because my body, stubborn as always, refused to open for a heart that wasn’t fully in it.

When he touched me, I didn’t melt. I didn’t ache.

I dried up.

Literally.

And he noticed.

Worse than nothing—I feel disconnected. Dry. My body clenches up, not in excitement, but resistance.

He pulls back slightly, eyes searching mine.

“You’re not into this?” he asks, voice low.

I try to smile. “I… I don’t think I want to go all the way.”

He chuckles. Not cruel, but not kind either.

“Damn. You’re one of those girls who don’t get wet, huh?”

The words hit like cold water.

I blink.

He says it like a joke, but it lands hard. Like I’m broken. Like my body’s refusal is a punchline.

I turn my face away, pretending not to care.

But I do.

Because I know my body. I know how alive I can get when I feel seen. When I feel safe. When it’s someone I actually want.

Jay doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just flops back on the bed, muttering something about needing to cool down. The movie keeps playing in the background, forgotten.

I lie there, eyes on the ceiling, wondering if he’ll talk about me the way he talked about the girls before me.

Earlier tonight, he told me about his ex. The pretty one I used to admire from afar in school. He called her an overthinker. Said she was always “too emotional,” and that he hated how dramatic she became when she was “into you too much.”

I remember how he laughed while saying it.

I remember how I laughed too, nervously. But now, it all makes sense.

That same voice will probably talk about me next. “She didn’t even get wet.” “She was cold.” “She couldn’t handle me.”

My stomach twists.

I want to go home.

⸻

The next morning, I dress in silence.

Jay barely says anything. Just yawns and stretches like it’s any other day.

I force a small smile, murmur something about needing to get home early, and leave without looking back.

There’s no hug. No kiss. Just the click of the hotel door behind me and the heavy weight of disappointment in my chest.

Not sadness—just a dull ache. A reminder that even good guys can still leave you feeling empty.

⸻

After that, the messages come slower.

The conversations grow shorter.

He stops asking to see me, and I stop caring that he doesn’t.

When he finally sends a long message complaining about how I’ve changed, how I don’t respond the way I used to, how I seem “distant and cold”—

I leave it on read.

Because I am distant. And I’m done performing warmth I don’t feel.

Truth is, he pushed me here.

And now, he gets to live with the version of me he helped shape—quiet, unbothered, unmoved.

The only thing I miss is the distraction he gave me. The silence he filled when I was trying to forget Melvin.

But now, it’s just me again.

Me, my thoughts, and Melvin’s ghost still circling the edges.

⸻

I leave the hotel and head straight to the small campus canteen, where the aroma of shawarma and fried yam hits me like a warm hug. I grab a plate, find a corner table by the window, and unwrap the food with deliberate slowness, letting the steam rise in front of my face.

My phone buzzes. A text from Zara:

Zara: “Girl, you alive? Saw the funniest meme—sending it your way

I tap into our chat, chuckling as I swipe through a dancing cat in a suit. No drama. No pressure. Just two friends laughing across miles.

I reply with a laughing emoji and snap a picture of my meal:

Me: “Shawarma > heartbreak”

She fires back:

Zara: “Facts. Also, did you see the new season of that show we love?”

I scoop a bite, thinking how simple good food and a silly meme can be a better cure than any grand gesture.

After eating, I wander back to my room, set my plate on the desk, and pull out the novel I’ve been reading—one about two friends on a road trip across Europe. I open to the marked page and lose myself in the story, the turn of each sentence reminding me that life is bigger than one person’s disappointment.

Later, I peel off my sneakers, slide into slippers, and pull my hair into a messy bun. I light a vanilla-scented candle and let the soft glow fill the room. I thumb through my planner, jotting down class times, a reminder to buy groceries, and a note to check the library for that book I need next week.

No calls. No big plans. Just me, a book, and the steady tap-tap of text notifications from Zara—asking about my day, sending random jokes, and checking in on my next lecture. It feels… peaceful.

The holiday stretches out—two long months of blurry days and late nights.

And somehow, in the middle of it all, Keith starts texting.

At first, it’s casual.

Then daily.

He’s funny, charming in a way that doesn’t try too hard. He listens. Actually listens.

And maybe, just maybe… he’s different.

Or maybe I just want him to be.