The Wrong Door

She knocked on the wrong door that evening, thinking her friend’s room was the last one on the left. It wasn’t.
So when the door swung open and she found him standing there—shirtless, half-awake, his hair messy and his eyes trying to adjust—she froze.

“Oh—sorry… I thought this was my friend’s room,” she whispered.

He blinked slowly, then smiled the kind of lazy smile that made her chest warm. “No problem. But since you’re already here… stay a minute?”

She should have apologized again. She should have walked away.
But something about the soft hallway light, his rough morning voice at night, the way he looked at her like she was trouble he wouldn’t mind inviting in—it pulled her in.

She stepped inside the frame but didn’t cross fully. He leaned casually on the door, close enough that she could feel his body heat brush her skin.
They didn’t touch.
They didn’t kiss.

They just stood there… too close… breathing each other’s air.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It vibrated.
Every second stretched thin, charged, heavy with possibilities they didn’t name.

He finally whispered, “You sure you knocked on the wrong door?”

She swallowed. “I’m still not sure.”

Sometimes the tension hits louder than the act.
And though nothing happened, she never forgot that doorway—
or the way her heartbeat felt like a secret only he could hear.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

✍️ "Weak in the Knees"

 He had me against the wall before I could say his name — fingers digging into my hips like he’d paid for the right to bruise me. He kissed me like he was angry, tongue sliding against mine until I gasped — that sound he loved, the one that made his grip tighten. By the time he slid his hand between my thighs, my knees were gone — soft, trembling, useless. I whispered don’t stop but I didn’t need to. He wasn’t going anywhere. He knelt right there, lips on my inner thigh, mouth making promises my body already believed. And when his tongue finally found me — hot, slow, devastating — my back hit the wall and I heard him laugh into my skin. “Weak in the knees for me, baby?” All I could do was moan — and give him everything he’d come for.
Read more

✍️ Somebody’s Shoulder Is About to Give Up

 Somebody’s shoulder is tired. Not from lifting weights — but from carrying everyone else’s silence. She smiles like she’s fine, but she’s tired of being the strong one. The listener. The fixer. The one who holds everyone together — even while she’s falling apart. She answers texts when she’s the one who needs comfort. She claps for others even when no one claps for her. She gives. She bends. But she’s starting to break. You’d never notice. Because she hides it like a pro. But if you look closely, her eyes say: “I need someone to carry me now.” Somebody’s shoulder is about to give up. And the saddest part? She’ll still ask you if you’re okay — while she's quietly drowning.
Read more

I get jealous over someone who isn’t even mine.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. Feeling jealous over someone who hasn’t promised me anything. Someone who owes me nothing. Someone who might not even like me back the way I like them. But here I am — getting irritated when I see their name pop up with someone else, getting quiet when they don’t text back on time, overthinking when they post something that doesn’t include me. I act unbothered. I pretend I’m cool. I respond with “lol” and emojis like my heart isn’t acting stupid. But inside? I’m burning. Not because they’re mine but because I wish they were. I know it’s foolish. I know I have no right. But feelings don’t wait for permission. They attach themselves quietly, softly, and then violently — especially when you try to ignore them. Jealousy without entitlement is the worst kind. Because you suffer silently, pretending you don’t care, while hoping one day they’ll choose you so you can finally stop lying to yourself.
Read more