Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
- Thalia -
After I hang up with Damian, I open Instagram and look up Xander. His profile is mostly pictures of him, his family, his truck and car, blurry concert photos, screenshots of stupid memes, and sunsets.
I scroll further back than I mean to. He looks the same in every photo, not staged like Damian, but rather like the person in the pictures matches the person in the messages. He looks real.
He contacts me on the dating app while I’m still on his Instagram profile.
Xander
You up?
Thalia
Yea, I can’t sleep.
Xander
Are you okay?
He always asks that. Simple. Direct. No pressure behind it, just space.
Thalia
Yeah just… a lot on my mind.
Xander
Good a lot or bad a lot?
My throat gets tight.
Thalia
Somewhere in the middle.
Xander
That’s usually the dangerous place.
I stare at the message thread for a while before feeling the urge to scroll back through Damian’s messages, desperately searching for something that proves I’m not imagining the wrongness. That I didn’t already step over a boundary I can’t redraw.
One message strikes me, and I compare it to one of Xander’s.
Xander asks, ‘What do you actually want?’
Damian asks, ‘When can I have you?’
Two threads.
Two completely different worlds.
Then, because it’s easier, I change the subject. I tell Xander I’m nervous about a date. I don’t name Damian. I don’t explain the truth behind why I’m nervous. I keep it light.
Thalia
First date jitters lol.
Xander doesn’t joke.
Xander
You don’t owe anyone anything you don’t want to give.
He sends a short voice message right after. Barely three seconds.
“Seriously. You don’t.”
His voice is quiet and steady. The kind that leaves space instead of taking it. I replay it once. Then again. Something inside me aches in a way that feels raw and unfamiliar. Not romantic. Not yet.
Just… safe.
Like someone finally cracked open a window in a locked room.
My first instinct is to argue. To say, ‘Yeah, obviously,’ as though it’s a thing I’ve always believed and not something I’ve spent years unlearning the opposite of.
But I don’t. I just stare at the message, thumb resting on the like button, wanting to press it and not pressing it because I don’t want to make it obvious how bad I needed to hear that.
Thalia
Thank you.
Xander
You’re welcome.
Also, if he’s weird, I’ll fight him.
That makes me breathe out a laugh, finally.
Thalia
You don’t even know him.
Xander
Don’t have to.
Thalia
Violence isn’t the answer.
Xander
It’s AN answer.
Thalia
omg
Xander
I’m kidding. Kind of.
The stupid little smile creeps back against my will.
For a second, I imagine something impossible.
I imagine meeting Xander first instead. I imagine a date where I’m not already bracing.
I imagine sitting across from him at some ridiculous chain restaurant with sticky menus and neon beer signs, telling him my favorite books, laughing too hard and not apologizing for it. I imagine feeling safe.
I let myself want it. Just for a second. Just in the privacy of my own head.
Then I shut it down.
Because the reality is, Damian already asked.
Damian already made space for me in his plans.
Damian already set the pace, and I already agreed.
Part of me is scared that if I back out, he’ll get angry.
And another part of me, the part I don’t like looking at too closely, is scared that if I say no, I won’t get asked again.
That’s the part that wins.
The night before the date, Damian calls me again, but this time it’s a video call. When I don't answer right away, I receive a text from him, demanding that I pick up.
I stare at the screen while it rings again. My reflection floats in the tiny corner square. Tired eyes, messy hair, a shirt that doesn’t match the shorts I’m wearing. I almost let it time out.
Then I sigh and swipe to accept.
His face fills the screen. He’s lying back on his couch, shirtless, one arm behind his head like this is casual, like we’ve been doing this forever. The TV flickers behind him, lighting his jaw with a blue hue.
“There you are,” he says.
My stomach knots.
“Hi,” I say, tucking hair behind my ear because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
“Show me what you’re wearing.”
It’s not flirtatious. It’s expectant.
I laugh like it’s a joke and tilt the camera just enough for him to see I’m in a black and white tank top. He hums low, approving, like I just passed a test I wasn’t told I was taking.
“You’re gonna wear that color tomorrow,” he says, as though it’s already final. Then after a second, he says, “Actually, take me to your closet. I’m going to pick what you wear tomorrow.”
After going through different options and trying them on, he chooses a pair of jeans and a black crop top.
“Looks good on you. I’ll pick you up at six,” he says.
It’s not ‘Does six work?’ It’s ‘I’ll pick you up at six.’
I swallow. “Okay.”
He smiles at me. Slow, lazy, possessive. “That’s a good girl. My little rabbit.”
Something cold slides under my ribs at the nickname, like I’m his prey that he has cornered.
We talk for a little longer, though talking isn’t really the right word for it.
He talks. I respond. He tells me he’s excited.
He tells me I’m ‘exactly his type’. He says, “You’re not like other girls,” and means it like a compliment, even though it’s not one.
He tells me I’m ‘chill’. That I ‘seem like I know how to listen’.
That part makes my stomach twist.
I try to keep my face pleasant. I try to keep my voice steady. Because I can feel the edge under his tone—not loud, not obvious, but there. Like if I slip, if I contradict him, if I say no, then the whole mood could flip.
“Get some sleep,” he says, as if he’s taking care of me. “You’re mine tomorrow.”
He hangs up first.
When the screen goes dark, I stare at the reflection of my face. My expression looks… different. Like someone I don’t recognize. Wide-eyed, unsure, waiting for permission to relax. My body feels wired, like I’ve swallowed lightning.
It’s not excitement. Not nerves.
It’s a warning.
But I bury it, because acknowledging it would make it real.
I’ve learned to ignore the first red flag.
The second.
The third.
My brain whispers, “This feels wrong.”
But the other voice, the one trained by every past rejection, whispers louder, “Don’t ruin this by overreacting.”
I just sit here, staring at my own dim reflection in the black screen.
You’re mine tomorrow.
The words echo long after the call ends.
You’re mine tomorrow. Ownership disguised as affection.
I pull my knees to my chest, the silence pressing in like humidity. Something inside me whispers to run.
But I stay.
Because sometimes danger feels flattering when loneliness has starved you long enough.
I should feel flattered.
That’s what I tell myself.
Instead, I feel like prey that’s already been tagged.
I set the phone down slowly, anxious it might go off again.
My room is quiet. Too quiet. My heart is still racing from the call, and I don’t know if it’s nerves or dread or some messy knot of both.
I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling.
Minutes pass. Then hours. My eyes burn, open and unblinking. Every time I close them, I see Damian’s smile through the phone screen—sharp, expectant, hungry.
My phone is face down on the nightstand, but it feels like it’s staring at me. Like if I touch it again, he’ll know. Like the connection is already something binding, not digital.
Eventually, exhaustion drags me under.
But even in sleep, I don’t rest.
I flinch awake twice, heart racing, convinced someone said my name in the room.
I think about canceling.
I draft the text in my head.
Hey, actually, I’m not feeling great.
Hey, something came up.
Hey, I don’t think I’m ready.
Hey, I changed my mind.
In my head, I hit send. In real life, I don’t.
Because the version of Damian in my head does not take ‘no’ well. The version of Damian in my head says, ‘Don’t waste my time.’ The version of Damian in my head says, ‘You said yes.’ The version of Damian in my head gets mean. Loud. Dangerous.
And the version of me in my head does what she’s always done: keeps the peace.
So, instead of canceling, I open Instagram.
I go to Xander’s profile.
He’s posted a twenty-four-hour story of a cat tangled in a blanket, only the tail sticking out. The caption reads, ‘He’s fine, just dramatic.’
I smile.
My thumb hovers over the reply box.
I want to tell him I’m scared. I want to tell him something doesn’t feel right. I want to tell him I wish it was him picking me up tomorrow instead of Damian.
I don’t.
Instead, I open the dating app and type.
Thalia
I saw your insta story. Your cat is ridiculous.
He replies almost immediately.
Xander
It’s actually my mom’s cat. He gets it from her.
The laugh that slips out of me is small but real.
For a second, the panic eases.
For a second, I can breathe.
For a second, I think. Maybe tomorrow will be fine. Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe I’m being dramatic, like the cat in the blanket. Maybe I’m paranoid for no reason. Maybe nothing bad happens. Maybe this is the part where I finally get what other people already have, and it’s okay.
I hold on to that version.
I wrap myself in it, even though it doesn’t quite fit.
Because the alternative—the knot in my stomach, the way my skin prickles, the way his voice felt like a hand around the back of my neck—is too heavy to carry into sleep.
I plug in my phone.
I turn off the light.
And in the dark, I whisper to myself like it’s a spell.
It’s just a date.
It’s going to be fine.
It has to be.
I hold onto that as I drift off to sleep.
The next morning, before the date, I visit my favorite place: the local bookstore near my apartment. When I enter, it envelops me with its familiar scent of aged paper and brewing coffee.