𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By senior year, Paul Walker was the boy everyone knew. The golden one. The basketball star with a grin that could melt even the strictest teacher’s patience. He was the kind of boy who walked into a room and pulled the light toward him without even trying. Every girl had a reason to watch him, and every guy had a reason to envy him.

And then, somehow— over all of the cheerleaders and other athletes— he noticed you.

You hadn’t grown up the kind of girl people would’ve expected him to notice. You were quiet, always clutching your books too tightly, trying not to spill yourself out into the world more than you had to. Teachers liked you because you always knew the answers, but even that felt like a curse. Your cheeks would flush every time your name was called, as though being right meant more eyes on you—and that was the last thing you wanted.

That day in class, your hands slipped, and your textbooks nearly tumbled to the floor. You caught them just in time, sinking into your chair, already red in the face. The teacher asked you something, and though the answer came to you instantly, your voice shook when you said it aloud. You didn’t know it then, but Paul was watching. Not because you got it wrong, but because you got it right and still looked like you wished you hadn’t been seen at all.

The next morning, he sat down beside you. He hadn’t asked—he’d just dropped into the empty seat, casual and certain, the way he always carried himself. “Hey, I’m Paul.” he said, like it was nothing.

You laughed nervously, blurting, “I know who you are,” before realizing how ridiculous it sounded. Words tripped and stumbled as you tried to fix it, and Paul had laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. That was the start of it.

For two weeks, he kept sitting beside you. And little by little, you stopped being the quiet girl he’d once had to draw words out of. He liked the way you rambled, even when you didn’t mean to. He liked that you didn’t try to impress him, that your guard slipped no matter how hard you tried to hold it.

When he finally asked for your number—hiding it behind talk of homework—you saw through it immediately. But you gave it to him anyway.

Which is why tonight, you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at the landline you stole from the living room like it holds the whole world. The clock on your nightstand drips forward, each minute heavier than the last. Nine o’clock. Ten. Ten-thirty. You almost give up. And then—

The ring.

You snatch the receiver up so quickly you cut it off before the first chime finished. “Hello.”

There’s a pause, then the familiar low laugh. “Wow, that was fast.”

Heat rushes up your neck, though he can’t see you. “Oh—yeah, sorry. I just… it’s late. I didn’t want the ringing to wake my parents.”

“Right…” His voice is different here, softer without the noise of the hallways, stripped of the easy swagger he carries in front of everyone else. “How are you?”