she didn't know when it started.

Maybe it was the first time you laughed at something dumb she said, like really laughed, head thrown back, eyes crinkling. Or maybe it was when you texted her at 2 AM, just a simple “you up?”, and ended up talking until sunrise about everything and nothing.

Or maybe it was earlier than that—maybe she was doomed from the start.

Because here she is, staring at her phone, your name sitting at the top of her notifications, heart pounding. Like an idiot.

Like a crush.

she bites her lip, willing herself to be normal about this. To not overthink.

But she can’t.

Because it’s you.

And she thinks she might be in trouble.

she tells herself it’s casual. That she's not doing anything out of the ordinary.

But then she's picking her outfit with too much effort, fixing her hair twice, reapplying lip balm even though you’re not even here yet.

And when you finally show up, she swears, she forgets how to act.

"Hey," you say, stepping inside, the smell of your perfume hitting her immediately.

"Hey," she echo, and then—she just stands there.

Because what the hell is she supposed to do with her hands? Why is she so aware of her own breathing?

And why do you have to look so good doing the absolute bare minimum?

You glance at her, head tilted. "You okay?"

No.

"Yeah."

You hum in amusement like you don’t quite believe her, but you let it slide.

Thank God

You both end up on her bed, sprawled out, just talking.

And it’s normal.

Except it isn’t. Not for Gracie.

Because every time you move, every time your fingers absentmindedly trace patterns into her blanket, every time you push your hair out of your face—she notices.

she really notices.

And then you do this thing, where you turn your head to look at her mid-sentence, your lips slightly parted like you’re about to say something, and it’s so—stupidly attractive that she physically has to look away.

Because if she didn't, she might do something reckless.

Like kiss you.

Or confess everything.

Or, all of the above—fuck it all up.

It’s late when you finally leave, and she should be asleep by now.

But she's not.

she's lying in bed, staring at her ceiling, overthinking every moment. Every glance. Every smile.

she tells herself this is stupid. That she doesn't even know if you’d ever feel the same.

That she shouldn’t feel this way.

But she does.

And that scares the shit out of her.

Because she thinks—I think I really want this.

And I think I’d risk drowning for you.

The pen shakes in her hand.

she hates this.

she hates having feelings she shouldn't have, that they’re eating her alive, that no matter how hard she tries to ignore them, they just—stay.

So she does the only think she can do.

you can just talk and ill stare at ur mouth

The words bleed into the page, ink smudging slightly under her fingertips.

she doesnt cross it out.

Because it’s true.

she bites her lip, tapping the pen against her journal as she tries to breathe through the ache in her chest.

I wake up in the middle of the night, with the light on and i feel like i could die..

In my head, you're in the car, and you're comin' to me

And you get to my door, and you can't even speak

But I think that it's sweet, yeah, I think that you're sweet...

if you're the risk i'm gonna take it

she hates

hates that shes writing about you like you’re some love story she can’t stop herself from living. That she feels sick when she doesn't talk to you. That she can’t look at you without her heart betraying her.

That you’re probably clueless.

she drops the pen with a quiet thud and press her forehead to the paper, sighing.

And then—

Her phone rings.

She jumps.

Her heart practically leaps out of her chest, her body jerking so violently that the journal slips off of her lap and onto the floor.

The name on the screen makes her stomach flip.

It’s you.

She swears under her breath, fumbling for her phone, her fingers barely working as she presses answer.

“H-Hey.”

"You okay?" Your voice is soft, a little amused. Like you know.

She swallows. "Yeah, I just—uh—"

What does she say? Sorry, I was just pouring my entire soul onto paper about you?

You laugh, and it’s the sweetest fucking sound.

“Did I scare you?”

Yes. But not in the way you think.

She forces a breath. "No. I was just—"

She glances at the journal on the floor, the pages still open, her feelings spilled out for no one but herself to see.

"Just thinking."

You hum. "Good things, I hope."

She closes her eyes.

You have no idea.

The room is dark, quiet except for the faint hum of the AC. Gracie's limbs are tangled in the sheets, her skin flushed and damp, and her breath—God, her breath is ragged, uneven, like she just ran a marathon in her sleep.

Because of you.

It started slow, hazy, like the warmth of a summer night creeping in through an open window.

You were there—of course, you were. Sitting close, too close, your body pressed against hers in that effortless way that made her breath hitch, that made something coil tight in her stomach.

you were talking. About what? she doesn't even know. Your voice was soft, teasing, just a little playful, like you knew what you were doing to her. Like you wanted to push her just far enough that she'd snap.

And then your fingers brushed over her thigh.

It was innocent—at first. A touch so light, so fleeting, it could’ve meant nothing. But it didn’t. It meant everything.

Because then you did it again.

And this time, you didn’t pull away.

she remembers looking at you, her heart slamming against her ribs, her breath uneven, and you—God, you just smiled. Like this was a game you’d already won.

Then you leaned in, slow, deliberate, letting her feel your breath against her skin before your lips met hers.

she swore she could taste you. Could feel the way you kissed her—soft at first, like you were savoring it, like you wanted to memorize every second before it turned into something hungrier.

And it did.

Your hands tangled in her hair, fingers tugging just enough to make her gasp against your mouth. her hands were on your waist, your skin warm under her fingertips as she pulled you closer, needing more, more, more.

Somehow, you ended up tangled in the sheets, your bodies pressed together, heat radiating between you. Your lips ghosted over her jaw, her neck, lower—

she shivered.

It felt so real. The way you whispered gracie's name, the way your touch burned into hers, the way she melted for you, like she had been waiting for this all her life.

Like she needed you.

And just as you were about to—

She woke up.

Panting. Flushed. Aching.

She sits up, pressing a hand to her chest, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The dream still lingers in her mind, you still linger—your touch, your voice, the way you looked at her like you knew.

Like you wanted her just as badly as she wanted you.

Gracie squeezes her eyes shut, swallowing hard, but it doesn’t help. She could still feel it—your hands, your lips, the way her own name sounded from your mouth, the way you touched her like you were meant to. Like this wasn’t something she had to keep locked away, scribbled in the pages of the damn journal.

She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair, willing her body to calm the hell down.

But then—her phone buzzes.

again.

Her heart lurches in her chest as she reached for it, hands still slightly shaking. And when she see your name on the screen—

'I swear the universe is playing some cruel joke on me.'

She hesitates for a second before picking up.

"Hey," she whisper, voice still hoarse, like she had just woke up from a dream she shouldn’t have had.

"Did I wake you?" Your voice is gentle, like you’re worried, and dammit, she hates how easily you get to her.

"No," she lies, running a hand over her face. "You okay?"

There’s a small pause. "I just couldn't sleep."

Neither can Gracie. Not when her body still burns from the dream.

"Want me to stay on the phone with you?"

You let out a small breath. "Yeah. Please."

So she does.

And tries not to think about the fact that just minutes ago, she woke up panting your name.

It was late. That kind of late where the world felt softer, quieter, like the universe had paused just long enough for Gracie to sit in this moment with you. They were on your couch, a movie playing on the screen, but neither of them was really watching. You were half-asleep, your head resting against the cushions, your fingers lazily scrolling through your phone.

And gracie? She was looking at you.

Not in the way friends do. Not in the way she was supposed to.

pathetic.

Her heart was doing that stupid thing again—beating too fast, too uneven, too obvious. She swallowed hard, forcing her gaze away, trying to focus on anything but the way the dim light cast shadows on your face, the way your lips parted slightly as you yawned, the way she wanted—needed—to reach out and touch you.

She was so, so screwed.

You glanced at her then, eyes half-lidded, a small, sleepy smile pulling at your lips. “You okay?”

exhaling sharply, she nodded. “Yeah.”

lie.

Silence stretched between them, comfortable, but her chest felt tight. It had been building for weeks, maybe months—maybe since the second she met you. And now, sitting here, with the weight of it pressing against her ribs, Gracie felt like she was drowning in everything she couldn’t say.

too soon to tell you i love you

too soon to tell you i love you

too soon to tell you i love you

But she was tired. So damn tired of holding it in.

So she said it. Stupidly. Carelessly.

"I love you."

The words slipped out before Gracie could stop them, quiet, but there. Hanging in the air between them, irreversible.

Your phone stilled in your hands. Your brows knit together, like you weren’t sure you heard her right.

"What?"

She licked her lips, her stomach flipping violently, but she was already in too deep. Her laugh came out shaky, almost breathless. "I mean… it’s too soon, right?" Gracie's fingers picked at the hem of her hoodie, her pulse hammering in her own ears. "Too soon to tell you I love you-." She tries covering it up like she was referencing something, letting out a humorless chuckle, but failing miserably.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Just stared at her.

And that was somehow worse.

Panic crawled up Gracie's throat. She wanted to backtrack, to laugh it off, to pretend like she hadn’t just ruined everything—but she couldn’t. She meant it. Every word.

Finally, you spoke. Voice barely above a whisper. "Gracie."

She swallowed hard, suddenly regretting every decision she had ever made.

But then—then—you moved.

Shifted closer, your fingers hesitating before reaching for hers, lacing them together. Your grip was warm, steady, grounding.

And when you spoke again, your voice was soft.