I crossed the line the next day.
Not dramatically.
Not bravely.
Just… quietly.
Between classes, I found him near the lockers.
"Hey," I said.
He looked up, surprised.
"Hey."
I took a breath.
"Do you ever get messages… that feel personal?"
For a second, his face didn't change.
Then he smiled.
"Personal how?"
Too smooth.
I shrugged.
"Like they know what you're doing."
He laughed.
"Sounds creepy."
I waited.
Nothing else.
"No?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"Nope."
But his hand tightened around his bag.
I noticed.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
Stop.
Too late.
I looked back at him.
"You're lying," I said softly.
His smile faded.
Just a little.
"You think everyone lies," he said.
"That's your problem."
He walked away.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number:
You crossed it.
Why did you stop me? I typed.
The reply came slower than usual.
Unknown Number:
Because now he knows you know.
I stared at the screen.
And that's bad?
A long pause.
Then:
Unknown Number:
Because I was not ready.
That sentence felt wrong.
Ready for what?
No reply.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time, I wondered:
What if the unknown person wasn't in control?
And what if crossing the line wasn't my mistake…
But his?