Frequencies of Us Chapter 20: Scribbles and a Scare

Noah POV

I’m in the library, the air quiet and thick, shelves looming around me like walls. My notebook’s open on the table, pages messy with notes and doodles, and my hand’s moving—pen scratching, slow and shaky—drawing his name: Mateo. My chest’s tight, jittery, since yesterday in the AV room—him helping, “Need help?”—his elbow brushing mine, warm and steady, flipping my stomach upside down. My heart’s thumping, loud in the silence, and my face burns, hot and sudden, because it’s dumb—writing his name like some kid—but I can’t stop, can’t shake him.

The pen loops the “o,” dark and bold, and my gut twists, warm and dumb, because he’s everywhere—track, gym, basement—grinning, teasing, sticking in my head. My fingers shake, restless, and I mutter, “Stupid,” under my breath, mad at myself, but my hand keeps going, tracing his name again, smaller this time, tucked in the corner. My chest flutters, scared and good, because I like it—him, this—and it’s freaking me out, pulling me in deeper every time he’s around.

The door creaks, loud in the quiet, and my head snaps up—heart jumping, slamming into my ribs—because it’s him, Mateo, walking in, hoodie up, hands in pockets. My stomach drops, cold and fast, and my hands fumble, slamming the notebook shut, pen clattering loud. My face burns hotter, sweaty and red, and I shove it under my bag, quick, like he won’t see, won’t know. He stops by the table, smirking—small, crooked—and my breath catches, stuck in my throat, because he’s here, close, and I’m caught.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, rough, dropping into the chair across from me. His eyes flick to my bag—sharp, curious—and my heart slams, wild and loud, because he’s looking, too close to it, to me. “What’re you doing?” he asks, leaning in, and my gut twists, warm and scared, because his smirk’s growing, like he knows something.

“Nothing,” I mutter, fast, my voice cracking, shaky, and my hands grip the table, sweaty and trembling, because it’s a lie—he’s right there, in my notebook, in my head—and I’m freaking out. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, and reaches—slow, teasing—grabbing the notebook out from under my bag before I can stop him.

“What’s this?” he says, flipping it open, and my chest locks up, breath gone, because it’s there—his name, scribbled, staring up at him. My face burns, blazing hot, and I lunge—“Give it back!”—but he pulls away, laughing—short, bright—and my heart jumps, banging hard, because he’s seen it, he knows.

“Mateo,” he reads, slow, grinning big now, and my stomach flips, cold and warm at once, because it’s out—raw, dumb—and I want to disappear. “Got a crush, huh?” he teases, leaning closer, eyes bright, sharp, pinning me where I sit. My throat’s dry, a lump I can’t swallow, and my hands shake, bad, gripping the chair, because he’s joking—but it’s true, and it’s killing me.

“N-no,” I stammer, voice cracking loud, and my face burns hotter, redder, because I’m lying—badly—and he’s laughing again, soft, real, making my chest flutter, wild and dumb. “It’s just—shut up,” I mutter, snatching the notebook back, my fingers brushing his—quick, warm—and my heart slams, sending a jolt up my arm. He leans back, still grinning, and my gut twists, scared and good, because he’s not mad—he’s teasing—and it’s messing me up worse.

“You’re weird,” he says, low, smirking, but his eyes stay on me—dark, steady—and my breath snags, loud in my ears, because it’s there—us, close, pulling—and my chest tightens, liking it too much. My hands shove the notebook in my bag, shaky, and I try to grin—small, wobbly—but my face won’t cool, won’t stop burning, because he saw, he knows, and I don’t know what he thinks.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, looking down, my voice soft, cracked, and my heart’s pounding, wild and fast, because he’s still here—watching, grinning—and it’s warm, new, terrifying me. He kicks my chair—light, playful—and my leg jolts, brushing his under the table, and my stomach flips, hot and fast, because it’s him—close, real—and it’s digging in, pulling me deeper.

The library’s quiet—just our breathing, pages rustling far off—and my head’s buzzing—his laugh, his tease, that touch—replaying, making me jumpy. My hands fidget, restless, and I glance at him—quick, shy—and his smirk softens, just a little, making my chest ache, torn between hiding and staying. “You’re red,” he says, low, teasing still, and my face burns hotter, my throat tight, because he’s right, and I hate it—hate how he sees me, how he gets me.

“Shut up,” I mutter again, grinning despite it, shaky and dumb, and he laughs—quiet, warm—and my heart slams, loud and wild, because I like it—too much—and it’s freaking me out. He leans back, stretching, and my eyes flick to him—his hoodie riding up, his grin fading—and my gut twists, warm and scared, because he’s here, with me, and it’s real, pulling tight.

I grab my pen, slow, pretending to work, but my hand’s shaky, scribbling nothing, because my head’s loud—his voice, “Got a crush,” echoing—and my chest flutters, caught on him. My phone’s in my bag, heavy, buzzing yesterday with “He’s in there with you,” and my gut twists, cold and sharp, mixing with this—him, us—making it heavier. I shake my head, hard, trying to push it out—texts, shadows, him—but it’s tangled, pulling me down.

He shifts, kicking my chair again—light, quick—and my leg brushes his, longer this time, warm and solid, and my breath catches, stuck in my throat. My face burns, my heart racing, and I look up—his eyes on mine, soft, unsure—and my chest locks up, air gone, because it’s us—here, now—and it’s messing me up, good and scary. “See ya,” he says, standing slow, grabbing his bag, and my heart jumps, banging hard, because he’s leaving, and I don’t want him to—not yet.

The library’s still—dusty, quiet—and my hands grip the table, sweaty and shaky, as he heads for the door. My chest’s tight, breath uneven, and my head’s spinning—his laugh, his tease, his look—digging in, making me dizzy. I watch him go—slow, hoodie swaying—and my gut flips, warm and dumb, because he’s gone, but he’s still here, in my notebook, in me, and I don’t know what to do.

Then I hear it—a low scrape, sharp, from the stacks behind me. My heart slams, wild and loud, and I spin, breath stuck, eyes darting—shelves dark, shadows stretching long. My gut twists, cold and fast, and my hands grip the chair, knuckles white, because it’s off—too quiet, too heavy—like yesterday, that thud, that laugh. “Who’s there?” I whisper, voice cracking, shaky, and the scrape comes again—closer, deliberate—rustling pages, soft and mean.

My legs tense, ready to bolt, and my chest heaves, breath short, because it’s them—those texts, that car—back again. My phone buzzes, sudden and sharp, and I yank it out, hands trembling bad—unknown number, one line: “He’s watching you blush.” My blood turns cold, ice in my veins, and my head snaps up—a shadow shifts, fast, between the shelves, tall and dark, eyes glinting in the dim. A laugh rolls out—low, warped, chilling my spine—and my chest chokes, breath gone, because they’re here, they saw, and they’re close—too close—cutting the quiet short, leaving me caught, alone, with nowhere to run.