Frequencies of Us Chapter 24: Laughs and a Lump

Noah POV

I’m in the hall, the air loud with lockers slamming and kids yelling, my hands stuffed in my jacket pockets. My chest’s tight, fluttery, since yesterday in the AV room—Mateo pinning me, teasing, “You’re a nerd,” his hands warm, his laugh steamy, pulling me in deep. We wrestled, tangled up, his knee between mine, and my heart skipped, wild and hot, because it was flirty—real—and I liked it, too much. Now I’m here, heading to class, my gut twisting, warm and dumb, because he’s stuck in my head—grinning, close—messing me up good.

Then I see him—Mateo—by the water fountain, leaning in, talking to some cheerleader. She’s all smiles—hair flipping, giggling loud—and he’s grinning back, easy, flirty, his hand brushing her arm. My stomach drops, cold and fast, like a rock sinking, and my face burns, hot and sudden, because it hurts—sharp, mean—watching him with her. My hands clench, sweaty in my pockets, and my heart slams, loud and wild, because he’s laughing—free, light—and it’s not with me, not now, and it’s tearing me up.

I stop, frozen, my sneakers squeaking loud, and my chest locks up, breath stuck, because she leans closer—too close—whispering something, and he smirks, nodding, like it’s nothing. My gut twists tighter, sour and heavy, and my head buzzes—yesterday, him on me, warm and steamy, now this—and it stings, bad, like I’m dumb for feeling it, for wanting him. My legs shake, restless, and I turn fast, walking away, needing out, but my eyes flick back—quick, dumb—and he’s still there, still grinning, and it cuts deeper, leaving me shaky.

Later, I catch him alone—outside, by the bleachers, the air cool, sun dipping low. My heart’s thumping, loud in my ears, and my hands fidget, pulling at my jacket, because I need to know—need it out—even if it hurts more. “Hey,” I say, voice low, shaky, stepping closer, and he turns—eyes hitting mine, dark, steady—and my stomach flips, warm and scared, because he’s here, real, but that cheerleader’s still in my head.

“What’s up?” he says, low, kicking the grass, and my chest tightens, breath short, because he’s calm—too calm—and it’s making me jumpy, making it worse.

“You into her?” I ask, fast, my voice cracking, raw and quiet, and my face burns, hot and sweaty, because it’s out—big, dumb—and I can’t hide it. “That cheerleader—you flirting with her?” My hands shake, bad now, out of my pockets, and my eyes lock on his—wide, surprised—and my gut twists, cold and warm at once, because I’m hurt—stupid, jealous—and I need him to say it, need it to stop.

He blinks, head tilting, and shrugs—slow, easy. “Just talking,” he mutters, voice rough, low, and my chest aches, heavy and tight, because it’s not enough—not clear—and it’s digging in, making me quiet. My throat’s dry, a lump I can’t swallow, and my heart slams, wild and fast, because he’s brushing it off—her, me—like it’s nothing, and it’s killing me, leaving me lost.

“Oh,” I say, soft, barely there, and my hands shove back in, shaky, because it hurts—deep, dumb—and I don’t know what to do with it. My face burns hotter, my eyes drop—grass, dirt, anything but him—and my chest heaves, breath uneven, because he’s standing there—close, real—but I feel far, pushed out. “Cool,” I mutter, low, turning slow, walking away, my sneakers dragging, because I can’t stay—can’t look—when it’s stinging like this.

I hear him shift—grass crunching—and my gut twists, warm and sour, because he’s watching—I feel it—his eyes on my back, heavy, pulling. My heart skips, loud and wild, and my hands grip my jacket, knuckles white, because I want him to stop me—say something, anything—but he doesn’t, and it’s quiet, too quiet, leaving me shaky. My head buzzes—her laugh, his grin, my hurt—and my chest aches, confused and raw, because I don’t get it—don’t get him, don’t get me—but it’s there, real, tearing me up.

I’m halfway across the field, legs heavy, my breath puffing white in the chill, and my face is still hot, my throat still tight. My hands fidget, restless, and I see him—AV room, bleachers, gym—teasing, wrestling, staying close, and it’s warm, steamy, but now it’s shaky, cracking under her giggle. My heart’s thumping, wild and fast, and I mutter, “Idiot,” mad at myself, because I asked—pushed—and it didn’t fix anything, just made it worse, made me feel dumb.

The field’s quiet—just wind, my steps—and my head’s loud, spinning with his shrug—“Just talking”—and my quiet, hurt walk away. My gut twists, guilt creeping in, because maybe I’m wrong—maybe it’s nothing—but it felt flirty, steamy with her, and it’s messing me up, making me small. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy, buzzing yesterday with “He’s jealous of this,” and my chest tightens, mixing with this—him, her, us—making it heavier. I shake my head, hard, trying to push it out—her, him, me—but it’s tangled, pulling me down.

I stop, slow, leaning on a fence, my hands gripping the wood, cold and rough. My chest’s tight, breath short, and my eyes flick back—quick, dumb—and he’s still there, by the bleachers, watching me go. My stomach flips, warm and wild, and my heart slams, loud and fast, because he’s looking—dark, steady—and it’s steamy, real, pulling me back. My face burns, my throat lumps up, and my hands shake, wanting to turn, to run to him, but my legs freeze, stuck, because he’s confusing me—flirting with her, watching me—and I don’t know what I feel, what he wants.

The sky’s fading—purple, soft—and my chest aches, caught on him—hurt, warm, lost. My hands drop, restless, brushing my jeans, and my breath’s uneven, shaky, because he’s there—far, close—aching in me, and it’s love, maybe, hitting me hard. My heart won’t slow, won’t settle, and I mutter, “Okay,” soft, fading, because it’s him—always him—and I’m stuck, needing him to see me, just me.

Then I hear it—a soft rustle, low and quick, from the bleachers behind him. My head snaps up, heart jumping, and my eyes squint—darkness pooling, something moving fast between the seats. My gut twists, cold and sharp, and my hands grip the fence, sweaty and shaky, because it’s off—too quiet, too sneaky—like yesterday, that car, that laugh. My breath stops, stuck in my throat, and I see it—a shape darting, small, slipping under the metal, gone in a blink. My heart slams, wild and loud, and my phone buzzes, sudden and sharp, making me jump.

I yank it out, hands trembling—unknown number, one line: “He’s not hers.” My chest locks up, air gone, and my eyes flick to Mateo—still standing, still watching, but he turns, slow, like he heard it too. My stomach flips, warm and icy, and my legs tense, caught between running to him and bolting away, because it’s them—those texts, that hum—but this time it’s different, steamy, pulling, leaving me shaky. A soft laugh drifts—low, eerie, floating from the bleachers—and my heart skips, breath choking, because it’s close—too close—and Mateo’s head snaps toward it, eyes wide, pinning mine across the field, leaving us caught, waiting, with something sweet and scary hanging in the air.