WRONG NUMBER | NIKI

5 - Close Enough to Lie

Horror doesn't simply settle over me. It detonates. Every functioning cell in my body simultaneously reaches the exact same conclusion: this cannot be happening, this cannot be happening, because if this is happening, then every message I'd sent to a faceless stranger over the course of last night now belongs to the infuriating boy currently looking up at me with one hand still securely around my waist. Worse still, the photo exists. 

It isn't an abstract memory anymore or a mistake I could pretend had dissolved into cyberspace overnight. It exists in his phone. Somewhere in his camera roll or chat history or cloud backup or whatever technological prison modern smartphones use to preserve human embarrassment indefinitely. I feel my soul quietly begin filling out transfer paperwork to another country.

Around us, the classroom slowly begins breathing again.

The ordinary sounds of life cautiously return, though they feel strangely distant, muffled beneath the relentless pounding of my own heartbeat. I become painfully aware that we're still on the floor, still occupying a position that would be deeply romantic if viewed through the lens of literally anyone except me, and still attracting the kind of attention that guarantees rumors before lunch. 

Every survival instinct I possess finally reconnects with my limbs. I jerk backward so quickly that I nearly lose my balance for a second time, catching myself at the last possible moment before managing to stand upright with all the grace of a newborn deer discovering legs for the first time.

"I—I'm sorry," I blurt, smoothing down my blazer despite the fact that it is already perfectly straight. "I wasn't trying to—I mean, I was trying to stop you from—I didn't actually mean to push you, I just..." 

My voice dissolves somewhere around the seventh failed explanation because every possible ending leads directly back to the phone still lying abandoned on the floor between us. My eyes snap toward it in pure panic. Without another thought, I dive for it with alarming speed, snatching it from the tiles and pressing the lock button so aggressively that I'm surprised the poor thing doesn't file a formal complaint. The screen goes black. I exhale with the relief of someone narrowly escaping public execution.

When I finally dare to look back at him, Niki has already pushed himself to his feet.

He brushes imaginary dust from the sleeve of his uniform before meeting my gaze again, his expression unreadable in that infuriating way I've already come to associate with him. There isn't even the slightest trace of annoyance over being shoved onto the floor. If anything, he looks... entertained. Just enough that the corner of his mouth refuses to return completely to neutral, as though he's discovered a joke the rest of the world hasn't caught up to yet. 

For several long seconds, neither of us says anything. Then he speaks.

"So..." His voice is calm, almost conversational, as though we haven't just survived the most humiliating interaction of my academic career. "Should I text you first, or are you planning on pretending this conversation never happened?"

Every muscle in my body locks. My phone, which I'd just managed to rescue from catastrophic exposure, suddenly feels like a live grenade in my hand.

"No." The answer flies out of my mouth with such alarming speed that it startles even me. It bounces off the classroom walls with far more force than I'd intended, drawing the attention of two students lingering by the doorway, who glance over with matching expressions of curiosity before wisely deciding that whatever was unfolding between us was none of their business. 

Heat surges into my face so violently that I'm convinced I could probably power the school's heating system for the rest of winter. I clear my throat once, then again, attempting to salvage what little remained of my dignity after delivering perhaps the most suspicious response in recorded human history.