Frequencies of Us Chapter 34: Laps and a Letdown

Noah POV

I’m at the track, the air cool and sharp, my hands stuffed in my jacket pockets. My chest’s tight, aching, since yesterday in the hall—Mateo turning away, my “Talk to me!” bouncing off his back, leaving me shaky and raw. That chime—“He’s chasing your heart”—stuck with me all night, steamy and soft, pulling me to him, but hurting deep. Now I’m here, watching him run laps, hoodie flapping, legs pumping fast, and my gut twists, hot and dumb, because he’s avoiding me—still—and I can’t take it, can’t let it sit.

My breath puffs, loud and quick, and my heart slams, wild and fast, as I step onto the dirt—shaky, determined—my sneakers crunching gravel. My face burns, hot and sudden, and my hands shake, restless, because it’s big—huge—and I need to know, need him to stop running. He rounds the bend—close now, sweat dripping—and my chest locks up, air stuck, because he’s here—real, moving—and it’s steamy, pulling me in, hard. “Mateo!” I yell—loud, rough—cutting through the wind, and my heart jumps, banging hard, because he’s slowing—finally—and it’s now, it’s us.

He stops—sharp, stiff—his chest heaving, eyes flicking to me—dark, wild—and my stomach flips, warm and fast, because he’s caught—looking, finally—and my throat tightens, dry and tight. “Why’re you running from me?” I say, voice cracking, loud, stepping closer, and my hands shake, bad now, out of my pockets, because it’s out—raw, real—and my face burns hotter, red and sweaty, needing him to answer, needing him to stay.

He wipes his face—quick, rough—with his sleeve, and my gut twists, steamy and wild, because he’s tense—jumpy—and it’s hitting me, deep. “I’m not ready!” he snaps, voice loud, sharp, cutting through me, and my chest aches, hot and raw, because he’s mad—pushing me—and it stings, bad. My heart slams, loud and wild, and my hands clench—shaky, dumb—because he’s not ready—but he kissed me back, he said “Me too,” and it’s messing me up, tearing me apart.

“Not ready for what?” I yell, stepping closer—too close—my voice bouncing off the bleachers, rough and desperate. My breath’s loud, uneven, and my face burns, red and wild, because it’s flirty—steamy in my head—but out here it’s loud, messy, pulling tight. “You said you felt it—why’re you dodging me now?” My chest heaves, my gut flipping, because I’m hurt—raw, dumb—and my eyes lock on his—dark, stormy—needing him to say it, needing him to mean it.

“I don’t know!” he shouts, hands flying up—fast, shaky—and my stomach drops, cold and hot, because he’s loud—louder than me—and it’s real, hitting me hard. “I don’t know what this is, okay? I’m not—” He stops, breath puffing, and my heart skips, loud and fast, because he’s torn—I see it, feel it—and my chest locks up, air gone, because he’s not ready—but he’s here, arguing, and it’s steamy, pulling me in, deep.

“Then figure it out!” I snap, voice cracking, loud, and my hands shake, bad now, brushing my hair—quick, rough—because I’m mad—hurt, scared—and it’s spilling out, raw and wild. My face burns hotter, my gut twisting, because he’s staring—eyes wide, chest heaving—and it’s us—close, loud—but he’s pushing, running, and it’s killing me, breaking me down. “You can’t just—kiss me back and then run!” My breath shakes, my heart slamming, because it’s love—yeah, love—and it’s big, tearing me up, leaving me shaky.

“I’m trying!” he yells, stepping forward—close, wild—and my chest flutters, steamy and fast, because he’s in my face—breath hot, eyes burning—and it’s flirty, raw, pulling tight. My hands shake, restless, itching to grab him, because he’s here—fighting, real—and my gut flips, warm and dumb, wanting him, needing him to stay. “It’s not easy, Noah—I’m messed up!” His voice cracks, loud and rough, and my heart jumps, banging hard, because he’s admitting it—something—and it’s hitting me, deep, but it hurts, too, cutting me open.

“Then talk to me!” I shout, voice raw, stepping back—shaky, dumb—because my chest’s tight—too tight—and my face burns, red and sweaty, because he’s trying—but he’s not, not really, and it’s messing me up, bad. My hands shove into my jacket—sweaty, trembling—and my breath puffs, loud and quick, because it’s us—arguing, loud—but he’s shutting me out, and it’s steamy, pulling me apart, leaving me raw. “I thought you felt it too,” I whisper—low, soft—my voice breaking, and my gut twists, cold and wild, because it’s out—quiet, real—and my heart slams, scared he doesn’t, scared I’m wrong.

He freezes—breath hitching, eyes wide—and my chest aches, hot and raw, because he’s caught—staring, stunned—and my stomach flips, steamy and fast, feeling it still, feeling him. My hands shake, bad now, and my legs wobble—weak, dumb—because I’m hurt—deep, dumb—and he’s not moving, not talking. “I—” he starts, low, rough, but stops, and my heart skips, loud and fast, because he’s torn—I see it—and my chest locks up, air stuck, because he feels it—I know he does—but he’s running, leaving me shaky.

I turn—fast, shaky—my sneakers scuffing dirt, walking off, because my chest’s tight—hurting—and my head’s loud—his snap, my whisper—spinning wild. My breath’s shaky, my face hot, and my hands grip my jacket—sweaty, trembling—because he’s back there—quiet, real—but I’m done, done begging, done breaking. My heart slams, loud and wild, and my gut twists, steamy and raw, because it’s love—yeah, love—and it’s big, pulling me in, but he’s not ready, and it’s tearing me up, leaving me hurt.

The track’s quiet—just wind, my steps—and my chest aches, hot and wild, because he’s still—watching, maybe—and my head buzzes—his yell, my hurt—mixing up, making me jumpy. My hands shake, restless, brushing my face—sweaty, hot—and my throat tightens, dry and stuck, because I could—could turn back—but I don’t, not now, too raw, too scared. My breath puffs, loud and quick, and my heart slams, pulling tight, because it’s him—always him—and I’m walking, hurting, but wanting, needing him still.

Then it hums—a soft buzz, low and warm, from the scoreboard overhead. My head snaps up, heart jumping, and my eyes squint—lights blinking, slow and flirty, glowing soft in the dusk. My gut twists, warm and steamy, and my hands grip tighter—sweaty, shaky—because it’s off—too perfect, too alive—like yesterday, that chime, that glow. My breath catches, stuck in my throat, and I grin—small, dumb—because it’s them—those texts, that tease—but it’s sweet, wrapping me close. My phone buzzes, sudden and soft, making me flinch.

I yank it out, hands trembling—unknown number, one line: “He’s shouting inside.” My chest flutters, hot and wild, and my eyes flick back—Mateo’s still there, head down, fists clenched, pulling tight. My heart slams, loud and fast, and my breath shakes, steamy and alive, because it’s us—here, now—caught in the buzz. The lights pulse—slow, soft—dancing over the track, and my gut twists, warm and wild, because it’s him—close, always—and I’m hurt, waiting, with something sweet and steamy glowing in the air.