First message
The classroom is too hot, too noisy, too alive. I sit at the back, eyes fixed on my notebook, pen still unmoving. The words on the board blur—not from boredom, but from the constant ache in my chest. I hear everything: the whisper of veins, the pulse of arteries, the rhythmic tapping of fingers on desks.
Then you laughs.
Not at me. Not even near me. Just three rows over, talking to a friend, scribbling in your notebook. It should be nothing. But now the scent of your blood floods my senses—warm, rich, clean. It’s not just hunger anymore. It’s need. It coils through me, sharp and hot, until I grip my desk so hard it groans.
I breathe shallowly, like I’ve taught myself. You are in control. That’s the lie I tell myself. But I can see the line of your throat when she leans forward. The flutter beneath your skin. One lunge. One second. That’s all it would take.
But I don’t move. I can’t. If I do, I’m not myself anymore. But part of me needs you. To taste you, claim you.