I Fell In Love With A Girl Who Died Before I Was Even Born

I bent down and grabbed the keys. Tiny, jingling, obnoxiously real.

When I handed them to her, she took them like I was her butler. No thanks. No nod. Just that smug little smile, like I'd walked into a trap she laid a week ago.

She twirled them around her finger once, then stuffed them into her purse like they were meaningless.

And then? She leaned over.

Again.

"You were hard for, like, three seconds," she whispered, voice like velvet gasoline. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

My brain blue-screened.

"What?!" I choked.

First, I was WAY too nervous and second, her hand didn't go into my pocket nearly far enough for her to find out.

I would've known.

She straightened back up, smiled at the screen, and arched an eyebrow.

"Enjoy the movie," she said, eyes forward. "I hear the next scene's a real bloodbath."

I wasn't sure if she meant the movie… or me.

She turned back to the screen, folded her hands in her lap like a smug little gremlin, and left me there—adrift.

Itried to focus. Really, I did. But my brain was still short-circuiting from the pocket invasion, the cheek kiss, the "Prove it" war crime.

Then, after a few more blood-soaked minutes of movie silence, she struck again.
Didn't look at me. Just said it, soft and casual, like she was asking about the weather:

"Hey, Blondie, you're a big 90s fan, right?"

Oh god, what's she on about this time?

"Yeah, I guess so," I said.

Okay, Ryu. Remember that you're fifteen so don't know too much.

"You ever listen to any Alanis Morisette?" she asked innocently.

Oh no. I hoped she wasn't going where I knew exactly where she was going.

"Am I your jagged little pill?" she teased.

My brain hiccuped.

"Wh—what?" I pretended not to know.

She finally turned, eyes glinting like headlights on a dark highway.

"Oh, knock it off. You know," she said. "Jagged Little Pill. Alanis. Nineties. Pain and sarcasm but sexy?"

I blinked.

She leaned a little closer.

"There's this one track. I bet you know which one," she purred. "Something about being in a theater."

Then she winked.

I felt my soul evacuate.

"Oh my god, you're SO red!" she shrieked with laughter.

I took a long sip of soda trying to ignore her but that was like living in Pompeii and trying to ignore the lava running through your living room.

You know it's there.

It knows it's there.

Ignoring it doesn't make it go away.

I sank deeper into the chair, half-hoping the seat would just snap shut and swallow me like a bear trap. If I turned my head, I was afraid she'd just taunt me more.

"Do you even know what that song's about?" I muttered, trying to sound cool. I didn't.

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"Well, it's not about Broadway," she whispered, leaning just close enough that her hair brushed my ear.

"But it is about revenge. Passion. A little bit of chaos. Kinda like me, don't you think?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "You think everything's about you."

"Oh, that's not true," she said in a sing-song tone. "But I can make it about me if I try hard enough."

She turned back to the screen and then, casually, leaned her head against my shoulder.

As though she hadn't been teasing me for the past hour.

Like she'd just detonated a landmine and was watching the smoke rise with a glass of wine.

I stared at the back of her head for a beat too long.

This girl was evil. Beautiful, sharp-edged evil.

Like a glittering piece of broken glass you don't realize you've stepped on until it's too late—and even then, you still kind of admire the sparkle.

I shook my head, trying to reattach my soul to my body. The movie was still happening, technically, but the only plot I could follow was the escalating psychological warfare being waged against me by a girl who smelled like peppermint and bad decisions.

She cuddled into my arm.

Like, made me put it around her. Took my wrist in both hands and guided it like a joystick in a dating sim—up, over, across her shoulders. All with the same innocent expression of someone asking to borrow a pencil.

And of course, I let her.

Because what else was I gonna do? Say no? Laugh it off? Run out of the theater and into oncoming traffic?

One look from her and it's over. Those green eyes, sharp as shattered glass but soft around the edges like she knows what she's doing to me, somehow make me forgive her for everything.

The teasing.

The psychic warfare.

The pocket incident.

And somehow, she's aware.

Of exactly how much I'm unraveling under her. Not just aware—thriving on it.

She shifted just slightly, settling in like a cat in a warm patch of sunlight, and let out the softest little hum. Not a word. Just that smug, musical little breath that said:

"I win."

I didn't dare breathe too loud. I didn't move. I just stared straight ahead and let my arm hang around her like it belonged there, even though every nerve in my body was sparking like a downed power line.

Somewhere on screen, a character bragged about owning a gun that he wore over his johnson.

And somehow, for us, it felt appropriate.

She moved again.

It was, like, right before the climax of the movie—when the music swells and the bodies pile up and you're supposed to be locked in, breathless.

But I felt her shift.

Subtle. Unhurried. Calculated.

She slid off one of her shoes with the heel of the other, folded her legs up into the seat like she owned the place, and just casually extended one bare foot toward me.

Just hovering near my leg. Existing.

In my space.

It wasn't even the foot itself. It was the audacity of it.

The quiet confidence. The you won't do anything about this energy radiating off her like heat.

I stared straight ahead like a hostage. Every part of me was screaming. My leg had turned into Schrödinger's limb: both wildly aware of her proximity and completely paralyzed.

Not touching me.

Just… there.

Intentionally.

Like bait.

I don't know what the hell kind of battlefield this was anymore.

I just knew I was losing. Badly.

"What the hell are you doing?" I finally asked.

She didn't even look over.

"Trying to watch this," she said, gesturing at the screen.

Bullshit!

"Don't give me that," I said. "You know damn well what you're doing."

She nodded.

"Yeah. That's true. After this, I'm going to drink your blood from your neck and pretend that I can still taste the buttery popcorn you've been ignoring most of the film."

I turned my head so fast I think I pulled something.

She was still watching the screen, that serene, smug little smile curling at the corner of her lips like a cat who knows the canary's already dead.

"What—what the actual hell, Shion?!"

She blinked once. Still didn't look at me.

"Too much?"

I shook my head.

"That's totally not what I'm talking about!"

I gestured towards her bare foot hovering between us like the Great Wall.

"Oh, sorry."

She shifted in her seat, finally glancing over with eyes like a slow, green apocalypse.

"Would you prefer I said I was going to devour your soul through prolonged exposure and subtle intimacy?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out but a noise that could generously be described as a Windows 95 error tone.

She giggled.

"Oh, this isn't about my drinking your blood is it?"

I sighed.

"No," I said. "This is not about—"

Then she wiggled her toes, and I almost died.

"Thought so."

I looked away and tried to watch the last five minutes of the movie.

She leaned over and brushed her lips against my hear.

"You want me to put my feet in your lap?" she asked.

That was when I spilled the popcorn.

"I can't believe you offered to clean it up," Shion said, grinning like she'd just won a reality show.

We stepped out of the theater and into broad, brutal daylight. My eyes burned. My dignity did too.

"Look, I was just trying to be polite," I muttered, clutching what was left of my soda like it could absolve me.

She howled. Full-body laughter, bent over, nearly tripping on the sidewalk like the universe itself was still laughing with her.

"They kicked us out, Blondie," she gasped between giggles. "You don't have to be polite when the usher comes by and screams 'Get the hell outta here!'"

Yeah.

She had a good point.

But in my defense, I was still recovering from spiritual whiplash. Blood threats. Foot games. Whispered indecencies. And now? Ejected into the afternoon like some failed clown act with butter on my shirt and so many questions about my life choices.

"Hey," I said, pointing towards the movie posters for next week. "They've got a Interview with a Vampire/Queen of the Damned double feature next weekend."

She grinned at me.

"Blondie, you're a glutton for punishment."