Frequencies of Us Chapter 21: Rumors and a Reach

Mateo POV

I’m in the cafeteria, the air loud with trays clanging and kids shouting, my hands gripping the edge of a table. My chest’s tight, burning, since this morning—Lena cornering me by the lockers, her smirk sharp, voice low, “Heard Noah’s into someone else.” My stomach dropped, cold and fast, and my face burned, hot and mad, because it’s him—him again—twisting me up, making me feel dumb. I brushed her off—“Yeah, right”—but it stuck, digging in, clawing at me all day, and now I’m here, watching him across the room, laughing with some AV kid, and it stings—bad.

He’s at a table, hoodie off, grinning easy, and my gut twists, sour and heavy, because what if she’s right? What if he’s playing me—teasing, sparring, fixing stuff—just messing around while I’m stuck, caught on him? My hands shake, restless, and I shove them in my pockets, my sneakers scuffing the floor, because yesterday—him doodling my name, blushing, “Got a crush, huh?”—felt real, warm, but now it’s shaky, slipping away. My heart thumps, loud and wild, and I hate it—hate how much I care, hate how it hurts.

I’m up fast, legs moving, weaving through tables, my chest heaving, mad and scared. He sees me coming—eyes flicking up, dark, surprised—and my jaw clenches, teeth grinding, because I need to know, need it out. “Hey,” I snap, stopping hard, voice rough, loud over the noise. He blinks, grin fading, and my stomach twists tighter, because he’s looking—really looking—and it’s not enough, not now.

“What’s up?” he says, low, leaning back, and my hands ball up, shaking bad, because he’s calm—too calm—and it’s pissing me off, making it worse.

“You playing me?” I spit, stepping closer, my voice cracking, raw and hurt. My face burns, hot and sweaty, and my chest locks up, because it’s out—big, dumb—and I can’t take it back. “Lena says you’re into someone else—true?” My heart slams, wild and fast, and my eyes lock on his—sharp, daring—because I need him to say it, need it to stop twisting me up.

His face changes—eyes wide, mouth dropping—and he stands fast, chair scraping loud. “What? No—it’s lies!” he yells, voice rising, shaky and mad, and my gut flips, cold and warm at once, because he’s loud—fighting back—and it’s hitting me, hard. “She’s full of it, Mateo—why’d you believe her?” His hands are up, fists clenched, and my chest tightens, breath short, because he’s mad—mad at me—and it’s not what I wanted, but it’s something.

“Because it looks like it!” I shout, stepping in, my voice bouncing off the walls, loud and rough. “You’re always with somebody—laughing, grinning—what am I supposed to think?” My hands shake, bad now, and my face burns hotter, because it’s spilling out—jealousy, hurt, all of it—and I hate how it sounds, hate how it feels, hate how he’s staring—eyes dark, fierce, cutting through me.

“I’m not!” he snaps, voice cracking, loud and desperate, and my heart jumps, banging against my ribs, because he’s close—too close—and it’s messy, pulling me in. “It’s just crew—friends—nothing else!” His breath’s fast, chest heaving, and my gut twists, guilt creeping in, because he’s telling the truth—I feel it—but it’s tangled, still stinging, still raw.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, low, mean, and turn fast, walking away, my sneakers slamming the floor. My head’s buzzing—his voice, Lena’s smirk—and my chest’s heaving, hot and tight, because I’m mad—mad at her, mad at him, mad at me for caring. I hear him call, “Mateo, wait!”—sharp, rough—but I keep going, pushing through the crowd, needing space, needing out, because it hurts—deep, dumb—and I don’t know how to fix it.

I’m at the door, shoving it open, the hall cool and quiet, my hands shoving into my hair, pulling hard. My face is still hot, my throat tight, and I kick the wall, hard, tile cracking loud. “Someone else,” she said, and my stomach twists, cold and sour, because it’s not true—he said it’s not—but I saw him laughing, saw him easy with them, and it’s tearing me up. My chest aches, confused and raw, because I don’t get why it cuts—why him with anyone flips me inside out—when he’s just Noah, just a guy.

I slump against the wall, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor, my breath puffing out, shaky and loud. My hands fidget, restless, and I see him—gym, library, track—grinning, teasing, staying close, and it’s warm, good, but now it’s shaky, cracking under Lena’s words. My heart’s thumping, wild and fast, and I mutter, “Idiot,” mad at myself, because I yelled, walked off, and it didn’t fix anything—just made it worse, made me feel dumb.

The hall’s quiet—just echoes, my breathing—and my head’s loud, spinning with his yell—“It’s lies!”—and my snap, raw and mean. My gut twists, guilt digging in, because he didn’t deserve that—not really—but I couldn’t stop, couldn’t shut it off. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy, buzzing yesterday with “He’s watching you blush,” and my chest tightens, mixing with this—him, us—making it heavier. I shake my head, hard, trying to push it all out—her, him, them—but it’s stuck, pulling me down.

I’m up, pacing, my sneakers scuffing, my hands shaking, needing to move. My chest’s still tight, breath short, and I think about going back—saying sorry, fixing it—but my legs freeze, stuck, because he grabbed me—“I’m not”—his hand on my arm, warm, tight, lingering even now. My skin buzzes where he touched, hot and real, and my heart slams, loud and wild, because he stopped me—held me—and it’s unresolved, hanging there, pulling tight.

The lights flicker, buzzing soft, and my head’s buzzing too—his grip, his yell, that touch—replaying, making me jumpy. My hands grip my hoodie strings, knuckles white, and I stop, leaning on a locker, wiping sweat off my face with a shaky hand. My heart won’t slow, won’t settle, caught on him—hurt, mad, close—and I don’t know what it means, what I want. My breath’s uneven, chest aching, and I mutter, “Stupid,” soft, fading, because it’s not just him—it’s me, tangled up, needing him to stay.

Then I hear it—a low hum, engine rumbling, faint but growing. My head snaps up, heart slamming, and my eyes dart to the window—headlights flicker, slow, bouncing across the lot outside. My hands grip the locker, cold and sweaty, and my breath stops, stuck in my throat. The rumble gets louder—tires crunching, steady—and my legs tense, ready to run. The lights swing closer, dim but sharp, cutting through the glass, and my stomach drops, icy and fast, because it’s them—again—that car, that laugh, back for me.

A shape moves—quick, dark—inside, and my heart locks up, wild and loud. My phone buzzes, sudden and sharp, and I yank it out, hands trembling bad—unknown number, one line: “He heard it all.” My blood turns cold, ice in my veins, and the car slows—engine growling, lights flaring—stopping right outside. A laugh rolls in—low, warped, chilling my spine—and my chest chokes, breath gone, because they’re here, they know, and a figure steps out—fast, blurry—boots hitting the ground, coming closer, cutting the quiet short, leaving me caught, alone, with nowhere to go.