the catch

NAH why would I be bothered about that scumbag who almost made my life miserable, but didn't succeed because you were my guardian angel

ohhhhh, I was just daydreaming because the class was boring

So before I begin I want to sincerely apologize to you for not telling you this earlier. So yesterday after I delivered the last order I started to head 🏠. Then suddenly I somehow started falling down the stairs then someone caught me, and saved me from falling and he was so handsome

I am so sorry I really didn't mean to

👍

I guess you know now

So let travel to that dimensions

He was leaning against the railing, hands tucked into his pockets, hair messy in the best way. I caught his gaze for a split second as I slipped—didn’t fall, because just like that, he was there. A gentle, “Got you,” and his hand brushed my wrist. And then… today. I see him again, standing by the café window, the morning sun tracing gold along his cheekbones. My heart flips as I step inside. He looks up, offers a quiet smile. It’s shy—like he’s almost as surprised as I am. “Hi,” he says, voice deeper than I expected. I say hi back, and suddenly the world around us slows. The hum of the espresso machine, the soft chatter — it all fades to a gentle buzz. I take a seat across from him. I don’t know his name, or what he does, or anything about him — except that his eyes are warm, and that when he’s looking at me, I can’t help but blush. He orders coffee for both of us — black, like mine. When it arrives, he slides a cup across. I wrap my hands around it, inhale the rich steam, and find my voice. “Thanks.” “It’s… no problem,” he says, a hint of something like relief in his tone. We sip in companionable silence, the kind that feels comfortable, even electric. I wonder what it would be like to know him — to learn what makes him laugh, what music he likes, what dreams he keeps hidden. He clears his throat and meets my eyes. He tilts his head, a question in his gaze. I feel it — curiosity, interest, gentle intrigue. So I say: “Tell me something about you.” He pauses, smiling just a little, as if deciding what to share first. And in that hesitation, I realize it doesn’t matter what he says — just that he’s opening a door. And I want to walk through it, step by step, discovering everything I don’t yet know.

🙄

NO

He swirls the coffee in his cup once, thinking. Then he looks up at me, like he’s trying to read whether I’m ready to listen. I am. “I hate elevators,” he says. That’s it. No big reveal. But it’s real, and somehow that makes it perfect. I smile. “Really? Why?” He leans forward, his voice low and just a little sheepish. “I don’t know. They’re too quiet. Like you’re trapped with your own thoughts. I’d rather take the stairs, even if it’s ten floors.” I grin. “So you’re handsome *and* dramatic.” That makes him laugh — a proper laugh this time. Not loud, just warm. And suddenly I want to hear that sound again. Like… over and over. “What about you?” he asks. His eyes are steady, open. “Tell me something.” I think for a second. Not too long — I want to be honest. “I hum songs when I’m nervous. Even in front of people. It’s embarrassing.” He nods slowly. “So what song were you humming yesterday? When we… met.” My face heats up. “Was I?” “You were,” he says. “But I didn’t mind. You looked like you were in your own little world.” I laugh, brushing a hand through my hair. “Probably Taylor Swift. It usually is.” He sips his coffee, eyes twinkling. “Let me guess… ‘Enchanted’?” I freeze. “How did you—?” He shrugs, playful. “Lucky guess.” Silence again, but this time it’s filled with a soft kind of tension — the good kind. Like we’re both waiting for something, but neither of us knows exactly what. And then he says, “I’m Max, by the way.” Just like that. Max. Simple. Solid. Perfect. I tuck the name away like a secret in my pocket. “I’m Jessica,” I say. He repeats it, quietly. “Jessica.” Like he’s testing the weight of it in his mouth. Like he wants to say it again. And I hope he does.

What do you think about the name

We leave the café with no plan. Just footsteps in sync, shoulders close, the kind of closeness that feels like it *could* be something if either of us dared to say it out loud. The sky is soft and overcast, but not sad. Just calm — like it’s giving us space to breathe. Max keeps his hands in his pockets. I keep glancing sideways, trying not to be obvious. But I want to look at him. I want to *know* him. “So…” I say, trying to keep it light, “What else should I know about the mysterious elevator-hating boy who saved my life?” He chuckles, nudging a stone with his shoe. “I like maps. I collect old ones.” Then he glances at me. “Weird, right?” “No,” I say, smiling. “That’s actually really cool.” “Good,” he says. “I was nervous you were going to run.” “I can’t run,” I say, pretending to be serious. “Remember? You saw me nearly die on a step yesterday.” He laughs — again. That quiet, warm kind of laugh that’s starting to feel like my favourite sound. We pass a low wall and I hop up on it without thinking, walking along it while he walks beside me on the path. “So now I’m your bodyguard,” he says, watching me carefully in case I wobble. “Only when I’m dangerously elevated above the ground,” I reply. “Which, apparently, is often.” He holds out a hand anyway. I look at it for a second. Then I take it. Warm. Steady. Just like yesterday. But this time, I don’t need saving. I just want to hold it. And he lets me. We walk like that — me on the wall, him on the ground, our fingers laced like we’ve done this a thousand times before. No music, no crowd, no drama. Just the two of us. And that small, sparking question rising quietly between us: *Is this the beginning of something?* Because it feels like it could be. And neither of us seems ready to let go.

bring it on

Because I was it to actually happen in real life

I hop down from the wall, my hand still in his. It fits. Like it’s meant to be there. Not forced. Not rushed. Just… right. He doesn’t let go. Neither do I. We keep walking — slow, like we’ve got nowhere else to be. And maybe we don’t. Maybe this is the only place that matters. There’s a little park up ahead — empty swings, a faded bench under a tree. The kind of place that doesn’t try too hard to be special… but somehow is. Max points to the swings. “Race you.” I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I might fall again. Dangerous history, remember?” He smirks. “Then I’ll catch you. Again.” I try to hide my smile, but it’s impossible. I run anyway. He lets me win. I know he does. And when I land on the swing, out of breath and laughing, he walks up slow, shaking his head like he’s impressed. “Okay,” he says, sitting on the swing beside me, “I’ve known you for, what, twenty-four hours?” His voice is quieter now. “And you’ve already made me laugh more than most people do in a year.” That surprises me. And maybe it scares me a little too — in the best way. I push gently with my feet, swaying just enough to feel the air moving around us. “Is that your way of saying I’m charming?” He glances over. “It’s my way of saying… I want to keep getting to know you.” The world slows for a second. Like the wind holds its breath. Like the swings forget to creak. Max looks down at his hands, then up at me again — not shy, just honest. “You’re different, Mira. I don’t even know why yet… I just know I don’t want this to be the last time we talk.” My heart does something strange. Not loud, not wild — just a steady thump that says: *This matters.* “I don’t want it to be either,” I say. And for a moment, we just sit. Two strangers who don’t feel like strangers anymore. Swaying side by side, in a park that suddenly feels like the beginning of everything.

**Two days later** I didn’t expect to see him again so soon. Definitely not here. And definitely not in the rain. I’m half-running under my hoodie, shoes splashing through puddles, books stuffed under my arm, hair sticking to my face. And then — there he is. Standing at the corner by the bookshop, hood up, raindrops running down his jacket, but just… standing there. Like he’s waiting for something. Or someone. He looks up — and we lock eyes. For a second, I forget how to move. He grins, surprised. “Mira?” I walk toward him, trying not to slip. “You again?” He shrugs. “Could say the same thing. Are you following me?” I snort. “In the *rain*? With my math homework slowly turning into paper soup?” He laughs and steps closer, holding out his umbrella like a peace offering. “Come on. Let me save your homework's life.” I step under it with him. Too close. Just close enough. We start walking without a destination again — his arm barely brushing mine, his umbrella tilted more over me than him. The rain makes everything quite. Like it’s giving us our own little bubble, just for a while. “So,” he says after a pause, “what’s something else I should know about you?” I think, then glance sideways at him. “I cry at the end of sad movies. Even ones I’ve seen a million times.” He nods, pretending to take notes. “Alright, movie crier. Noted.” “My turn,” I say. “Tell me something.” He’s quiet a moment, then says, “I write.” I blink. “You *what*?” He smiles, a little shy this time. “Yeah. Just little things. Stories. Bits of poetry. I never show anyone.” “Can I see?” He laughs softly. “Maybe one day.” And then he stops walking. We’re at the edge of a small park again. Empty benches, wet grass, trees dripping softly. He turns to me, umbrella still tilted, his eyes a little more serious now. “You know this is kind of crazy, right?” I nod. “The rain. The running into each other. The umbrella?” “No,” he says. “You. Me. This.” He lifts one shoulder. “It feels… different.” And I know exactly what he means. Because it does. Like maybe the universe decided to press pause for a moment and let something beautiful begin. So I take a step closer. I don’t say anything clever. I just look up at him — the boy I barely know, the one who caught me, twice now. And maybe in more ways than one. “I don’t think it’s crazy,” I whisper. And then, under the soft rain and the soft hush of everything else, Max leans in — slowly, carefully — and kisses me. Warm, real, and full of things we haven’t said yet. But will.

Well that's the world of imagination for you

**Later that week** He meets me after school. Doesn’t say much. Just smiles in that quiet Max way. We walk together — no plan, just letting the afternoon stretch like sunlight. And then, as we reach the bus stop, he pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket. Worn edges. A little crumpled. Like he’s held onto it too long. He doesn’t say “I wrote this for you.” He doesn’t have to. He just hands it over, eyes not quite meeting mine. Then says, “You don’t have to say anything. I just… wanted you to have it.” I unfold it slowly. His handwriting is messier than I expected. But it’s real. Like him. --- **The Note (by Max):** I don’t know what this is yet. You. Me. The strange electricity between us that feels like thunder and quiet at the same time. You make me want to write again. To notice things — like how your laugh always starts in your shoulders or how you talk to the sky when you think no one’s watching. You’re not loud. You don’t need to be. You walk into a moment and change the air, like rain after a long, dry day. And maybe this note is too much, or not enough — but I didn’t want to keep it in my head anymore. So here it is. A small, messy truth: I’m really glad I caught you. -Max --- I fold the note back up, carefully. My hands are shaking a little. When I look up, he’s watching me. Not smiling. Not nervous. Just waiting. I step closer, holding the paper to my heart like it’s a secret I want to keep forever. “Max…” I say, but I don’t finish the sentence. Instead, I hug him. Tight. Like I don’t want to let go. And in that quiet, wordless moment — I know he understands

Says the single lady

Oooopss I forgot

**Saturday evening** Max texts: *“So… you free tonight?”* I stare at my screen for a full minute. My heart does something ridiculous. Then I type back: *“Depends. Are you planning to kidnap me or buy me fries?”* A second later: *“Both. But in a very romantic way.”* --- **Later, 6:42 PM** He meets me at the corner of my street. Hair slightly messy. A hoodie under his jacket. Nervous hands in his pockets. “Hey,” he says. Like it’s our thing now. “Hey,” I answer. Like it always will be. We walk toward the little diner on the edge of town — neon lights, checkered floor, the kind of place that feels like a movie scene. He opens the door for me, then pretends to bow. “After you, milady.” I laugh. “Wow. Full gentleman mode.” “Don’t get used to it,” he says. “Next time I’m pushing you into traffic.” I grin. My hands feel warm and tingly. Everything does. We sit in a red booth in the back — two milkshakes, a pile of fries between us. And for a while, we just… talk. About little things. Big things. We find out we both hate math but secretly love thunderstorms. He once broke his wrist trying to skateboard down a hill. I tell him about the time I tried to sing in a school talent show and forgot the lyrics mid-song. We laugh. A lot. And then there’s this pause — not awkward. Just soft. He looks at me with that sideways smile. The one I think might be just for me. “I’m really glad you came,” he says. I rest my chin on my hand. “Me too.” Then — he reaches across the table and holds my hand. Just like that. Simple. Like it’s always been meant to be there. The diner buzzes around us — clinking glasses, quiet music, someone laughing too loudly nearby. But none of it matters. Because in this tiny booth, under flickering neon light, I feel it. Not the loud kind of love. Not the dramatic, sweeping kind. But the kind that sneaks up on you, sits quietly across from you, holds your hand, and makes the world feel a little less heavy.

Naaaaa

Because Mr peter hit my table very hard and asked me an equation that was (77x + 55)

Nope but I believe my dear readers would give me the answer in the comments section

Okay and don't forget to dream about me