Double trouble

Let me just say this upfront: some days, the universe decides you’re its personal punchline. Today was one of those days.

I woke up looking like I’d been dragged through a hedge backward. My hair? A bird’s nest. My hoodie? A shapeless blue sack that screamed “I’ve given up on life.” I didn’t even bother with makeup. What was the point? Today’s mission was survival, not impressing anyone. Especially not some imaginary crosswalk boy who probably didn’t even exist.

By the time I shuffled into school, my headache had morphed into a full-blown drum solo behind my eyes. Maths class at 8 a.m.? Cruel and unusual punishment. All I wanted was to face-plant onto my desk and hibernate until graduation.

The classroom was mercifully empty. I slumped into my seat, cheek pressed to the cold desk, when movement outside the door caught my eye. Mrs. Varma—our Physics teacher, aka the Project Tyrant—was power-walking down the hall. And trailing behind her? A tall guy with messy brown hair. *Dia’s “perfect” crush.*

I squinted. From this distance, he looked… fine? Like a background character in a teen movie. The kind of guy you’d forget five minutes after swiping left. But before I could psychoanalyze Dia’s taste, my stomach let out a gurgle that sounded like a demonic frog.

“Seriously?” I hissed, clutching my gut.

The demon frog croaked again. *Abort mission.*

I bolted from my seat, my hoodie swallowing me whole as I sprinted for the bathroom. The hallway blurred—lockers, posters, the smell of disinfectant—until I rounded the corner and slammed face-first into what felt like a brick wall.

Except this wall was warm. And breathing.

My vision swam. *Six bricks. Wait, no—abs. Six-pack abs.* My brain short-circuited as I registered the topography of this human wall: hard planes under a thin T-shirt, leading up to a chest that could’ve been carved by Michelangelo. And then… *oh God, nipples.*

“Are you okay?”

The voice snapped me back. I looked up, and there he was.

*Him.*

The crosswalk boy. The mystery. The ghost who’d haunted my dreams. Up close, he was all sharp jawline and messy brown hair, his eyes the color of moss after rain. And he was *holding my arms*, steadying me like some kind of knight in shining armor. If knights wore ratty sneakers and smelled like cedarwood.

I was frozen like an ice ball which will roll over off a slight push. I kept looking at his eyes but he was moving, getting closer and furtherther spontaneously.

My mouth finally moved. “Your… torso. It’s very… structured.”

*Structured?!* I might as well have said, “Hello, I’m a deranged cavewoman.”

He smirked. “Structured, huh?”

Before I could combust, my stomach unleashed a sound so primal it could’ve been featured on *Planet Earth*.

“Gotta go!” I wrenched free and sprinted away, his aura chasing me down the hall.

In the bathroom stall, I buried my face in my hands. *Of course* I’d humiliate myself in front of him. *Of course* he’d witness my stomach’s betrayal. And *of course* I’d looked like a sentient laundry pile during the whole ordeal.

My eyes were searching for him while heading back to class from the toilet.

Dia leaned over, her eyes sparkling with gossip. “Okay, spill. Why do you look like you just fought a bear?”

I opened my mouth to trauma-dump the whole mortifying collision, but she cut me off, shoving her phone in my face. A photo filled the screen: Mrs. Varma standing beside a tall, brown-haired boy in the cafeteria.

“That’s him! Mrs. Varma’s son. His name’s Zuchek. He’s half-Asian, half-German, plays guitar, and he’s *literally* perfect. Look at his smile—”

My blood turned to ice.

The boy in the photo wasn’t generic. Wasn’t plain toast.

He was *him*.

The crosswalk boy. The brick-wall abs. The guy who’d witnessed my stomach’s symphony of doom.

“Dia,” I croaked, my voice strangled. “That’s… that’s the guy I ran into today.”

She had a long pause… then blinked. “Wait, *your* mysterious crosswalk guy is… Zuchek? Mrs. Varma’s son?”

I nodded, my throat tight.

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