Chapter 1 #2
We’ve been talking for less than an hour, and the different conversations split into two tracks.
Xander is steady. He checks in without checking up.
He sends me dumb memes and videos of dogs being dramatic and asks how my day really was.
He tells me about his job in this half-apologetic way, like he’s worried I’ll think it’s boring.
He tells me what he cooked for dinner and how he accidentally used too much garlic so now his entire kitchen smells like a vampire extermination site.
He doesn’t ask for photos.
He doesn’t push.
He doesn’t act like I owe him anything because we matched.
Damian, meanwhile, moves fast.
He asks for my number within a day. He phrases it like he’s doing me a favor.
Damian
This app is annoying. Just text me.
I hesitate. I don’t know him. I don’t even know his last name.
But I don’t want to come off like I’m playing games, either. I don’t want to be ‘difficult’. I hate how automatically that word floats up. Difficult. Like it’s a sin.
So, I give it to him.
After that, it escalates.
He texts constantly. ‘Good morning, gorgeous.’ ‘Send me a pic.’ ‘What are you wearing?’ ‘Let me see you.’
At first, I laugh it off and send something safe like my face from a high angle with good lighting because I know how to make myself look tolerable. But when I dodge the more explicit stuff, he sends a little eye roll emoji and then goes quiet for an hour as if I’ve disappointed him.
The silence makes me anxious, though I don’t want to admit it. I find myself sending an extra message just to fill it.
He calls me ‘baby’ and says things like ‘you’re mine’ before he knows anything about me.
He says we ‘vibe’ after two days and talks like we’re already together, like it’s decided, like the plan is set and all I have to do is show up and follow along.
And sometimes? Sometimes that sounds easy. Less scary than the part where I have to make decisions and risk being wrong.
Meanwhile, Xander is still there. Still patient. He feels like a slow-burning candle, warm and steady. Damian feels like a match flaring too bright.
There’s a night where I’m in bed, lights off, staring at the ceiling, and I’m texting both of them at once. I’m flipping between threads like a split screen.
Xander
Be honest, are you the kind of person who rewatches the same comfort shows 900 times or do you like new stuff?
Thalia
I rewatch until my brain goes quiet.
Xander
That’s what I figured.
Thalia
What does that mean?
Xander
You have anxious energy.
My breath catches.
Thalia
Rude.
Xander
I say it with affection.
Thalia
You don’t even know me.
Xander
I will.
That one makes my stomach drop in a completely different way.
I stare at that message for a long time.
I don’t even know what to say back.
Because with Damian, when he says, ‘You’re mine,’ it feels like a corner closing in. With Xander, when he says, ‘I will,’ it doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a promise. Quiet, not loud.
I should have paid more attention to the difference.
Damian starts asking when I’m free.
Not ‘when do you want to meet?’ Not ‘what would make you comfortable?’ Just what day he’s picking me up, what time I’ll be ready, and what I’ll wear.
Damian
I’ll come get you Saturday.
Thalia
I can meet you there.
Damian
Nah. I’ll pick you up. Safer that way.
Safer.
That word sounds comforting when you don’t turn it over. I didn’t turn it over. I didn’t let myself ask, ‘Safer for who?’
We talk on the phone a couple nights before the date.
The call feels less like a conversation and more like a performance for which he already wrote the script.
Every time I speak, he pivots the topic back to him, what he wants, what he expects, who he thinks I am.
Like I’m something he’s already imagined, and now he’s trying to mold the real version of me into the fantasy in his head.
At one point, I mention I’m nervous about meeting someone from the internet.
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
“Why? You should be excited.”
The dismissal hits harder than a slap. He doesn’t ask why I’m nervous. He doesn’t reassure me. He labels the feeling wrong, so instead of processing it, I swallow it.
He doesn’t want my honesty. He wants my compliance.
His voice is lower than I expected. Smooth. Trained, almost, like he’s aware of exactly how he sounds in a girl’s ear and knows how to use it.
I’m pacing my room barefoot, phone pressed to my cheek, tracing the pattern in the cheap carpet with my toes. It’s just me, the dark, and the sound of his voice.
“What are you wearing right now?” he asks.
I laugh because I don’t know what else to do. “Sweatpants.”
“That’s hot.”
“It’s really not.”
“It is to me.”
He says it so easily, so casually, like the correct answer is to feel flattered, not unsettled. I force a smile he can’t see because I’ve spent years learning how to make the right noises to keep things smooth. It’s automatic.
He asks what I like. He tells me what he likes. He keeps looping back to what he’s going to do to me on Saturday like it’s not a maybe, not a negotiation, just a script.
“You’re gonna be good for me,” he says at one point, voice dropping. “Yeah?”
My mouth goes dry.
He calls me a good girl like a reward, and I laugh in this breathless way that I hate because it sounds like agreement.
It feels like he’s not waiting for answers so much as laying out expectations.
When I hang up, my hands are shaking.
I tell myself it’s nerves, normal first-date nerves. I tell myself it’s supposed to feel intense, that chemistry is supposed to feel like pressure, like heat, like adrenaline. I tell myself I’m lucky someone this confident wants me. I tell myself most girls would kill for this.
I don’t tell myself that part of me was scared to say no.
I don’t tell myself that part of me felt like I already wasn’t allowed to.