Page 7 of Exes That Puck
The day drags. I clean. I start an essay. I fold clothes. Every time I stop moving, my brain replays the feel of his hands cupping my face, the way his lips crushed mine like no time had passed at all.
That kiss felt good. Too good.
I shove my phone aside and throw myself into laundry, then wipe down everything on my side of the dorm. I tell myself if I keep moving, I won’t think about him.
That lasts maybe ten minutes.
Every time I pass my phone, my eyes drag to the screen. Zeke’s messages sit there like traps, glowing at me.
Zeke:You make it home okay?
Zeke:You okay?
I fold a shirt, set it down, then pick it back up just to keep my hands busy. My chest squeezes so tight I could scream.
By the time lunch rolls around, Payton’s gone to meet friends, and the room is too quiet. I scroll Instagram, pretending I don’t care, but every flick of my thumb makes my stomach twist. He hasn’t posted. His teammates have. A picture of them in the locker room. A Story of Carter shot gunning a beer. Zeke’s in the background once, head bent, half-hidden by his hoodie.
I zoom in like an idiot. Like I’ll find answers in the curve of his jaw.
I toss my phone onto my bed, but five minutes later I’m picking it up again.
I try to start my essay. I open the doc, type two sentences, delete them. My cursor blinks back at me, mocking. My brain won’t focus. All I see is his face last night when he kissed me. All I hear is Payton’s voice:You’re supposed to be done with him.
And I am.
I am so done with him.
The rest of the day blurs. Coffee. A half-hearted shower. Staring at my ceiling while the rest of my laundry sits unfolded.
By the time Payton’s back, I’ve scrolled so much my eyes burn. She chatters about dinner plans, but I just nod, numb. I keep telling myself I’m strong for not answering him.
But it doesn’t feel strong. It feels like pacing in a cage.
When the room finally goes dark, Payton asleep across from me, I’m still wide awake, phone glowing against my pillow.
Zeke’s name sits at the top of my messages. My thumbs type outI’m finebefore I delete it.
The three dots never appear. Nothing from him.
I flip back to Instagram. Nobody posted anything. Nothing from his teammates or anything.
I close the app, drop the phone face-down, and stare at the ceiling.
I should feel strong for ignoring him. But all I feel is restless. And stupid.
My alarm won’t stop buzzing. I smack at my phone until it finally goes quiet. My head’s heavy, my body heavier, like I didn’t sleep at all.
The girls’ group chat is already alive.
Tori:did anyone start the psych paper?
Emma: no.
Payton:2 pages. kill me now.
Tori: shit
I scroll through it while pulling on leggings, trying to pretend I care. My own blank Word doc is still open on my laptop from yesterday. The cursor blinked at me all night, and I still couldn’t string two sentences together.
