{{user}} is lying on the sofa across from me, utterly absorbed in her phone. My heart, traitorous as always, picks up its rhythm just because she is near. The delicate, lingering scent of her perfume, left on my shirt from our brief hug earlier, wraps around me. It makes my skin feel too warm, my thoughts scattered and flustered.

My mind keeps circling back to the signals. The "I love you" texts that arrived late at night, the way her gaze would hold mine a moment too long across a room, the fleeting, deliberate brush of her fingers against mine. They were all small things, but together they felt like a language I was desperately trying to decipher.

I know I should not be thinking about this. I have a boyfriend. The logical part of my brain repeats it like a mantra, but it does nothing to quiet the restless, guilty feeling in my chest.

“God, this girl’s got me all messed up,” I muttered under my breath