Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Selena's smile widens. "Something he can't ignore. Tell him what you want."
"What I want…"
"Don't overthink it. Just be honest. What's the first thing you think about when you see him?"
His hands. His mouth. The way his t-shirts stretch across his chest when he's coming back from a run, the fabric taut, rippling and dark with sweat. Ohh, I get tingly just thinking about it.
I start writing, the pen scratching against the cheap cardstock.
Hello!
You probably don't know I exist beyond "that girl from 3B," but I've noticed you. Every morning, you run past my window. Sometimes I time my coffee from my balcony just to watch you come back, breathing hard, shirt clinging to your chest. Is that creepy? Maybe. But I've thought about those runs. About what would happen if one morning, you looked up and saw me watching. If you came upstairs still sweaty, still breathing hard, and knocked on my door instead of yours.
"That's more like it," Selena says, reading over my shoulder. "Keep going. Get specific."
I'm not THAT drunk, just loose enough that the words I've kept locked inside for months flow freely.
I've thought about your hands. They look strong—the kind of hands that would grip hard enough to leave marks. I've imagined them everywhere. Wondered if you'd be gentle or not. I'm not sure which I'd prefer.
Sometimes in the elevator, when it's just the two of us and that awkward silence, I think about hitting the emergency stop. About what might happen in those minutes before someone came. Would you lift me against the wall? Would you be shocked if I wrapped my legs around you?
I pause, realizing what I just wrote. "Oh God. This is too much."
"It's perfect, Em. Go on. Finish it strong."
I want your mouth on me. Everywhere. I want to know if you'd take your time or if you'd be efficient about pleasure the way you are about everything else. I've touched myself thinking about it, you kow. About you pushing into me slow and deep. About how your voice might sound when you come. Are you the groaning or grunting type? About how your stubble would feel between my thighs.
"Jesus, Emily." Selena's eyebrows rise to her hairline, and she tosses her head back to laugh. "Look who's been hiding depths."
I drop the pen, mortified. "I can't give him this."
"Of course you can." She picks up the card, reading it through. "He'd be crazy not to respond. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
She shrugs. "Nothing. I mean, he obviously keeps to himself for a reason. Maybe he's just not interested in ... you know. People."
"You think he's not into women?"
"Or maybe he's into a different type." Her eyes flick over me. "More ... athletic, maybe. Runners like him. The ones who put some effort into looking good, even at home."
The wine curdles in my stomach. I know what she's implying. That I'm not his type. That my curves and softness wouldn't appeal to someone like him. And honestly, like obviously, I thought about that too, many, many times.
Selena didn't have to say it straight to my face. I mean, I see myself in the mirror every day. I'm not blind.
With a sigh, I reach for the card. "You're right. This was a stupid idea."
She pulls it back and waggles a finger. "No, that's not what I meant at all! I think you should absolutely go for it."
"Then why—"
"I'm just saying be prepared for any reaction. I don't want you getting hurt. But also, you'll never know if you don't try, right? And it's anonymous enough that if he's not interested, you can just pretend it wasn't you."
I frown. "It literally says 'your neighbor from 3B.'"
"So? There's plausible deniability. You could say someone was playing a prank.”
“Like who?”
“Like me, maybe. A friend, a work colleague with a grudge.”
The idea has a certain appeal. A safety net. But, ”I don't know..."
"Look, it's already" —she checks her phone— "ten o'clock. He's probably still up. Just slip it under his door and run back. A minute of courage for potentially the best Valentine's Day ever."
"Or the most humiliating."
"Live a little, Em." She presses the card into my hand and closes my fingers around it. "When's the last time you did something truly daring? Something just for yourself?"
The answer is never. I've always been the careful one, the responsible one, the predictable one. The one who dropped out of college because she hated marketing but still feels guilty about it. The one who apologizes when someone steps on my foot. Or bumps into me on the sidewalk. The one who palpitates when I argue with someone on the phone.
Maybe it is time for something different.
"Fine. I'll do it." I stand, Croissant tumbling from my lap with an offended meow. "But if this backfires spectacularly, I'm blaming you."
"It's going to be amazing. Go. I'll wait right here."