Frequencies of Us Chapter 22: Notes and a Night

Noah POV

I’m in the AV room, the air dusty and still, my hands shaky as I scribble on a scrap of paper—“Meet me, bleachers, dusk.” My chest’s tight, jittery, since yesterday in the cafeteria—Mateo yelling, “You playing me?”—his voice rough, hurt, cutting me deep. I grabbed his arm—“I’m not”—and he walked away, but that touch stayed, warm and heavy, buzzing in my skin all night. My heart’s thumping, loud in the quiet, and my face burns, hot and sudden, because it’s dumb—asking him to meet me—but I need to see him, need to fix this, need him close.

I fold the note, small and messy, and my gut twists, warm and scared, because he might not come—might laugh, might ditch—but I’m doing it anyway. My fingers shake, restless, and I slip it into his locker on my way out, quick, like it’s a secret I can’t keep. My breath catches, stuck in my throat, and I mutter, “Stupid,” under my breath, mad at myself, but my legs keep moving, carrying me outside, the day fading fast.

Dusk hits—the sky’s purple, stars poking out—and I’m at the bleachers, cold metal under me, my hands fidgeting with my jacket zipper. My chest’s tight, breath puffing white in the chill, and my heart’s slamming, wild and fast, because I’m waiting—waiting for him—and it’s big, scary, pulling me in. The field’s quiet—just crickets, wind rustling—and my head’s buzzing—his yell, my grab, that fight—replaying, making me jumpy. My face burns, sweaty despite the cold, and I kick the bench, soft, needing to move, needing him here.

Then I hear it—sneakers crunching grass, slow, steady—and my heart jumps, banging hard. It’s him—Mateo—hoodie up, hands in pockets, walking up like he’s not sure. My stomach flips, warm and dumb, and I grin—small, shaky—because he came, he’s here, and it’s good, too good. “Hey,” I say, voice low, cracking a little, and he nods, short, climbing up, sitting next to me—close, his shoulder brushing mine—and my chest flutters, hot and fast, because it’s us, quiet, real.

We sit, still—stars bright, air cold—and my leg bounces, restless, brushing his knee. My breath’s loud, uneven, and my gut twists, warm and scared, because he’s here—close, solid—and I feel it, loud, pulling me in. My hands grip the bench, knuckles white, and my head’s spinning—cafeteria, library, gym—him sticking with me, grinning, fighting, and it’s heavy, digging deep. My face burns hotter, and I glance at him—quick, shy—his eyes on the sky, jaw tight, and my heart slams, wild and loud, because I need to say it, need him to know.

“I like being around you,” I blurt, voice shaky, soft, slipping out fast. My chest locks up, breath gone, and my face blazes, red and sweaty, because it’s out—raw, dumb—and I can’t take it back. I look at him—eyes wide, caught—and my stomach twists, cold and warm at once, because he’s staring—dark, steady—and it’s big, scary, pulling tight. My hands shake, bad now, gripping harder, and my throat’s dry, a lump I can’t swallow, because I said it—I mean it—and I don’t know what he’ll do.

He freezes—breath hitching, loud in the quiet—and my heart jumps, banging against my ribs, because he’s still, too still, like I broke something. Then he nods—slow, small—“Me too,” he mutters, voice low, rough, and my chest flutters, warm and wild, because it’s him—saying it back—and it’s good, hitting me hard. But he pulls back—quick, shifting away—his shoulder leaving mine, and my gut twists, cold and fast, because he’s scared—I see it, feel it—and my chest aches, empty now, torn.

“Cool,” I say, soft, grinning shaky, trying to keep it light, but my voice cracks, and my heart’s pounding, loud and wild, because it’s there—us, close—but he’s pulling, fighting it, and I don’t know why. My hands fidget, restless, brushing my jeans, and my head’s buzzing—his nod, his “Me too”—replaying, making me dizzy. My face burns, my breath uneven, and I glance at him—quick, shy—his eyes on the ground, hands in pockets, and my gut flips, warm and scared, because he’s here, but he’s not, and it’s messing me up.

The night’s quiet—just stars, our breathing—and my chest’s tight, aching, because he’s close—knees brushing still—but he’s far, locked up, and I want him back, want us easy again. My heart won’t slow, won’t settle, and I mutter, “Okay,” under my breath, soft, mad at myself, because I pushed—too much, too fast—and he’s slipping, pulling away. My hands grip the bench, sweaty and shaky, and I feel it—him, me, this—digging in, pulling me deeper, and I don’t know what it means, what he wants.

He shifts—slow, stiff—and my leg brushes his again, warm and quick, sending a jolt up my spine. My breath catches, stuck in my throat, and my chest flutters, hot and dumb, because he doesn’t move—just sits, tense—and it’s there, real, hanging between us. My head’s loud—his voice, “Me too,” soft and scared—and my gut twists, warm and terrifying, because he feels it—I know he does—but he’s holding back, and it’s killing me, leaving it unresolved.

The bleachers creak—wind picking up, stars bright—and my hands shake, restless, wanting to reach, to fix it, but my throat’s tight, words gone. My face burns hotter, my heart slamming, and I glance at him—his jaw tight, eyes down—and my chest aches, caught on him, on this, on us. “See ya,” he mutters, low, standing slow, and my heart jumps, banging hard, because he’s leaving—again—and I don’t want him to, not like this.

I nod—quick, shaky—and watch him climb down, sneakers crunching grass, fading into the dark. My chest’s tight, breath short, and my head’s spinning—his nod, my blurting, his pull-back—digging in, making me jumpy. My hands grip the bench, knuckles white, and my gut twists, warm and scared, because he’s gone, but he’s here—in me, pulling—and I don’t know what to do, what it means.

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

A figure moves—quick, blurry—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 knows you’re his.” My blood turns cold, ice in my veins, and the car stops—engine idling, lights blinding—yards away. A laugh rolls out—low, warped, chilling my spine—and my chest chokes, breath gone, because they’re here, they saw, and a shape slips out—fast, dark—boots hitting the ground, coming closer, cutting the night short, leaving me caught, alone, with nowhere to run.