Page 18 of Burning Obsession

Maybe a message that shows a little more of my personality.

I start typing.

Me: I’m glad we met today and talked. I’m excited to take you out on a date. I didn’t know what the proper time was to reach out to you. But I’ve been obsessing over when to do it like a crazy lunatic.

Nope. That’s a little too honest and has me coming off crazy. He’ll definitely run in the opposite direction even after blocking my number.

I rub both hands down my face.

"Who let me have thumbs? Or a phone?" I let my head fall back on the couch in frustration.

Okay, the message wasn’t terrible. Maybe it just needs to be worded better. Here goes attempt number four.

Me: Just wanted to say I enjoyed meeting you today. You're really easy to talk to. Which is weird because I'm usually awkward around people I actually like, so congratulations on breaking whatever psychological curse I've apparently been living under.

I read it twice and immediately delete it. Somebody, kill me now. At this point my phone should honestly be charging me for unnecessary usage.

This is ridiculous. I’m a grown man with an honest job. One that runs into burning buildings to save lives for god’s sake. I pay taxes and can assemble furniture and cook. But for some unknown reason, I can’t manage to send one fucking text.

My phone practically whispers from the cushion beside me, taunting me with an eerie voice that reminds me of the Cryptkeeper.

Coward. Wimp. Loser.

I take a deep breath and blow it out, clearing my mind. One more attempt, and if I can’t get it right, then I’m not bothering with it anymore today. I’m not going to overthink it. Just type what comes to my mind.

My thumbs move across the screen before my brain has time to sabotage them.

Me: Hey, it's Jake. Just wanted to say it was really nice meeting you today. Hope the rest of your afternoon went well.

I read it. A few times. Debating on adding an emoji, but don’t. I take a deep breath. My thumb hovers over the send button.

"If this ruins my life..." I mumble as I press my thumb down on the screen.

Instant regret slams into me like a freight train.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

What have I done?

Delivered.

Shit. It’s out there now. He has it and now it’s all on him. He answers or he doesn’t. If he does, then it’s either going to be great or him telling me to leave him the hell alone. Or even worse it could be the dreaded ‘Who dis’ message confirming he gave me a wrong number.

I launch the phone across the couch like it's going to burn me if I keep it in my grasp. It should’ve known I’m a chickenshit and didn’t plan to send.

Oh my God, what am I going to do now?

If he doesn’t answer, then he really wasn’t interested and I’ve made a bigger fool of myself.

I try to focus on anything but my phone. My eyes scan the room, going from the coffee table, to the television, finally landing on my blind and the one strip that has a broken piece on it. When the fuck did that happen? Now I need to measure the blinds so I can replace them because all I see is the broken little piece.

Only a minute, if anything, has passed. My body leans to the side as my arm stretches out, my fingers grasping my phone because I need to see if he’s read it.

Nothing. Not the end of the world. He did say he was going home to work. I mean, I don’t know how long that video call was going to be, but he could’ve had other stuff to do. It’s not like I can be on my phone all the time when I’m on shift.

Then I spiral. What if he was fucking with me at the café and now he’s showing his friends the phone and the pathetic person who’s messaging him.

Nope not today. I’m not going down that defeating train of thought.