Miguel Veloso

Your phone vibrates under your pillow. You check the time—1:42 AM. Of course, it's him.

Mico: "Are you awake?"

You don't even doubt it.

You: "Obviously. What's wrong?"

Mico: "Nothing. I just wanted to know about you."

Your heart does that stupid little thing it always does when he says things like that. You turn onto your side, smiling at your phone.

You: "You're an idiot."

Mico: "Yes, yes. But I'm your fool."

You are about to reply when another message arrives.

Mico: "I miss you."

It's simple. It's not dramatic. It's not over-the-top. But you feel it. And your chest hurts.

You: "I miss you too."

You stare at the screen, wishing he were right there next to you. Wishing you didn't have to keep this a secret from your parents, who don't want you to talk to him. But before you can even begin to think about it, your phone vibrates again.

Monkey: "Hey. Open your window."

Your stomach drops.

You: "Monkey. No."

Monkey: "Monkey. Yes."

You sit up, approaching the window as quietly as you can. When you pull back the curtain, your breath catches in your throat. There he is. Standing across the street, hood up, hands in his pockets trying not to be caught.

He looks up, and when he sees you, he smiles.

Mico: "I told you I missed you."

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You want to yell at him, call him reckless, tell him to go home. But all you type is—

You: "You're crazy."

Mico: "And yet... you love it."

You bite your lip, trying not to smile. You place your palm against the glass, wishing he wasn't there, wishing he could be closer.

You: "Actually, yes."

The pause stretches between you, thick and heavy. And then, just like that, he writes again, but this time a little more daringly.

Mico: "Let's spend some time together."

I want to let you know that this chat isn't mine; it belongs to a creator I found on c.ai.