Two strangers. One blog.
One writes in the dark, never knowing who reads.
The other reads in silence, never saying who she is.
Mia Michels is a journalism student who hides behind a fake name, spilling her thoughts like confessions at 3 a.m. Her pos...
The smile rose to my lips without asking. At the same time, a strange pull ran through me, as if an invisible thread had tightened between us, tugging hard from a distance.
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I went down to the basement gym. I had already worked out that morning, but ever since Mia's messages the unease wouldn't leave me. The image kept looping in my mind like a song you can't get rid of: her somewhere in New York, moving in that black dress that fit her like it had been sewn onto her body, slipping through light and shadow, visible to anyone who cared to look.
My mouth went dry when I remembered the photo. That was when I became fully aware of how long it had been since I'd had sex. I hadn't thought much about it, not since Becca stabbed me in the back—in every possible sense. Thinking of her only dredged up that thick, corrosive hatred that burned through me, and I gripped the bar tighter, pulling myself into another chin-up. If it had been up to me I would have stormed onto that live broadcast, right then, and given her back every wound she had dealt me. Not stood at home hurling glasses at the wall like some pathetic outlet for rage, hiding the ugly scar that still refused to close.
"Mia," I whispered, as if her name could douse the fire. It wasn't hatred I felt, but a raw unease, a stab of something that came not from her but from not knowing where she was, who she was with, what she was doing at that exact moment. I had no right to feel it, no right to demand exclusivity from a relationship that wasn't a relationship, no right to feed this possessiveness growing like a root in the dark.
"Shit," I muttered, letting go of the bar and heading straight for the shower, as if water could wash away more than sweat.
Back in the bedroom, dressed in the pajamas I had picked out for the night, I still couldn't relax. The hours dragged, heavy and slow, and there were no new messages. The temptation to call her was so strong I could almost feel the phone burning on the nightstand. Maybe if I did it I would interrupt whatever was happening. Whatever I wanted to interrupt, if it was happening at all.
"This can't be happening to me," I whispered into the empty room. This loss of control wasn't me. I had always been the one in charge, the one setting the pace. I decided when doors opened and when they closed. I held the power. I remembered Scott's words, tossed off with that casual air of his. He had said I never showed myself completely to anyone. A face for the public, a body for sex. Nothing else. But with Mia...
Even while protecting my identity, with Mia I was myself.
I opened my laptop. There was only one way to end this. I had to get rid of the obsession. See her once. Just once. Put a face to her and maybe everything that filled me without seeing her would collapse when I confronted the reality. I wanted to believe that the moment I looked at her the spell would break, though deep down I feared it would only grow stronger.
