The first time he asked for my number, I did not hesitate.
The hallway was loud with lockers slamming and voices bouncing off metal. The kind of moment that usually disappeared as soon as it happened.
He said my name.
Not loudly. Just enough to cut through the noise.
I looked up. He was already watching me.
"Can I have your number?" he asked.
I unlocked my phone and handed it to him before the moment could stretch long enough for me to reconsider it.
Later, I would not remember what we talked about in those first messages. Only how often my phone lit up. How it kept doing that while I was doing homework, while I was brushing my teeth, while I lay in bed with the light off. Each buzz felt small on its own. But they kept coming.
Still, I kept my ringer on.
The next day at school, he sat beside me instead of across the room. Close enough that our arms brushed when he leaned forward. Close enough that I became aware of how I was sitting, how I was holding myself, how my voice sounded when I answered questions.
I stayed.
He asked about things that did not require much thought. Where I lived. What music I listened to. What I did after school. I answered quickly, filling the gaps before they could turn awkward.
I did not like giving anyone room to decide I was difficult.
When the bell rang, he walked with me part of the way to my next class. Not all the way. Just enough to feel intentional.
That night, I reread our messages until the words began to blur. I noticed how often I clarified myself, softening my tone before he had a chance to misread it. I told myself I was just being careful.
I thought that was normal.
A few days later, we sat together at lunch. He mentioned a girl he used to like, the story unfinished, offered casually between bites of food. I nodded where it felt appropriate. My chest tightened, the feeling unfamiliar and unwelcome. I did not ask questions. I did not want to know how it ended.
Wanting less felt easier.
When his knee touched mine under the table, I stayed still. I focused on the scrape of chairs, the overlapping conversations, the weight of the moment settling without words. My head felt light, the way it does when something shifts and you are not sure whether to follow it or pretend it did not happen.
After school, he texted me.
You're quiet in person.
I stared at the message longer than I needed to.
I'm not, I typed.
Then erased it.
I guess, I sent instead.
He replied with a laughing emoji.
Something in me loosened.
That night, I fell asleep with my phone beside me again. Not waiting. Just keeping it close, like it belonged there.
I did not think of it as attachment.
I thought of it as momentum.