I Hope This Doesn’t Find You

by Ann Liang

“Seriously, Julius,” I say through clenched teeth, lifting my hand, “if you don’t stop talking, I’ll—” “Hit me?” His smile sharpens, as though in challenge. It’s a smile that says you wouldn’t dare. “Choke me, the way you fantasized about in your email?”

Caz Song—

Not caz song from this time it’s real lmao

When I glance over at him, he looks equally horrified, as if the principal has just proposed that he snuggle up with a feral cat. And though the feeling is very much mutual, it still drives a small, blunt nail into my gut. Turns out I always want to be wanted, even by the boy I loathe.

Julius touches a finger to his lips like he can’t quite believe it either. Then he straightens. Cocks his head, his eyes black with cool amusement. “You call that a kiss?” he says on a scoff. His voice comes out lower than usual, and I can see the effort in the movement of his throat. “That was barely anything.” The heat inside me flares higher, incinerating all logic and reservation. I want to slap that smug look off his face, but then I think of something even better. “What about this, then?” I challenge, and before he can reply, I grab the collar of his shirt and pull him to me. This time, when our lips meet, I don’t back away. I deepen the kiss, letting my fingers slide up his neck, curl into his hair. For one moment, I can feel his shock, the tension running through his frame like a heated wire, and I think: I’ve won. I’ve proven him wrong. Then he kisses me back, presses me closer, and something inside me slides off-balance. It’s not meant to be like this. The thought is hazy, distant, lost to the sensation of his mouth on mine.

“I really can’t stand it when people are angry at me. Like, I know it might be simple for others, but I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t just forget about it and go on with my own life. It’s like there’s something hard wedged inside my chest. I’ll always feel guilty. I’ll always want to make amends.”

And if I’m going to self-destruct, then why stop at kissing the enemy?

“You did. In your email.” And then with his eyes on me, without having to pause or think twice, he recites, “From the bottom of my heart, I really hope your comb breaks and you run out of whatever expensive hair products you’ve been using to make your hair appear deceptively soft when I’m sure it’s not, because there’s nothing soft about you, anywhere at all.” They’re my words, but on his lips they sound different. Intimate. Confessional. “How do you . . . remember all that?” I ask. “I have all your emails memorized word for word,” he says, then instantly looks like he regrets having spoken.

“Because,” he says quietly, a curious expression on his face. I’ve never seen him so serious. So sincere. “You’re the only person worth paying attention to.”

“But . . . I’m not allowed to. I shouldn’t be having fun and throwing parties and—and doing the wrong things. I’m not supposed to cause any trouble.” “Who told you that?” she asks. “Who said you weren’t allowed?” Nobody, I realize. But nobody ever had to tell me.

I can’t believe it. It’s like spending years of your life training for a game only to realize you understood the rules all wrong.

What I’m realizing is that if you’re quiet about the things that hurt you, people are only going to mistake your tolerance for permission. And they’re going to hurt you again and again.

“It’s us, Sadie,” he says, like that’s answer enough. “When have we been bad at anything?”