Somebody Saw Me (6/6)

It didn't hit all at once.

There was no sharp line between before and after. No dramatic fall into grief or longing. Just... quiet. And space. And stillness that stretched a little too far.

I came back the next day.

And the day after that.

Same time. Same routine. Pool, locker, shower. I told myself it was for me--just a return to habit, to ritual. But I kept glancing toward the third lane. Kept expecting the splash of a body moving beside mine. Stronger. Faster. Effortless.

He wasn't there.

No scar above the brow. No towel slung low on his hips. No stolen glance across tile or mirror.

Just absence.

It clung to everything.

Even the water felt emptier.

I swam slower. Cut my rest breaks short. Showered with the stall door cracked open, listening without meaning to. I started counting how long I stayed in each part of the building, like I might cross his orbit again if I moved just right.

Nothing.

He was just... gone.

Like a ghost who'd finished his unfinished business. Or maybe I was the ghost, stuck haunting the locker room he'd already moved past.

I didn't talk to anyone about it.

What could I say? There wasn't a name to give. No story that wouldn't fall apart under daylight. Just a feeling, lodged under my skin, making my own body feel unfamiliar. I went through the motions, but it all felt out of sync.

The air was too dry. The showers too quiet. My own towel too scratchy against my skin.

Even touching myself was different now.

I'd try some nights, slow and silent under the covers, thinking about the weight of him behind me. His hand on my waist. The way he mouthed at my shoulder while I whimpered into the mat. The way he whispered, "You're doing so good," like I was giving him something sacred.

I'd get close, then stop. Or finish quickly. Or not at all.

Because it wasn't just his touch I missed--it was the warmth after.

The way he held me like it meant something.

Like I meant something.

And maybe that was the worst part: the fact that he had filmed me, watched me, used me--but the part that haunted me most was how gentle he was when he finally let me in.

It should've made forgetting easier.

It didn't.

My body remembered first--muscle memory, skin-sense. I'd close my eyes in bed and feel his breath on my neck. His chest against my back. The weight of his hand at my waist.

And then his voice.

You were the first person who ever really saw me.

I didn't know why that line wouldn't let go of me.

It felt too big. Too honest. Too strange to come from someone who filmed strangers in the shower.

But it hadn't been a lie.

Not when he said it.

And not in the way he held me, bare chested in that storage room, like it was the first time he'd ever been allowed to just... exist in someone else's arms.

I hated how much I missed that.

How much I wanted to feel it again.

Not the sex--not even the tension. Just the quiet. That one place where nothing else existed but him and me and warmth.

He hadn't told me his name.

He hadn't asked for mine.

It should've made forgetting easier.

It didn't.

Because what we had wasn't a story. It was steam on tile. Breath on my neck. A secret folded into the walls of this building.

I could still feel it every time I walked past the stairwell door.

I kept thinking--maybe I'd see him again. Maybe I'd catch a glimpse through steam. Or hear that voice just behind me in the showers.

Maybe I'd feel him pass me in the lane next to mine, close enough for his hand to brush mine underwater, like it did once when he was still pretending not to look at me.

But day after day, the locker room stayed the same.

The pool stayed the same.

And he didn't come back.

The world kept moving. I kept swimming. I shaved. I trimmed. I packed my towel the same way, folded once, then twice. I even cleaned my locker out--reorganized it like it mattered.

I kept telling myself it didn't.

But sometimes I'd catch myself at the mirror, just standing. Staring. Remembering the way his eyes flicked toward mine in the glass. Not bold. Just a flicker.

And it was enough.

Now, nothing flickered back.

There was no closure to this. No ending to the story. Just an unfinished sentence, a silence where the rest of the conversation might've gone.

And I carried it with me.

Not loud.

But always.

Sometimes I'd find my thumb hovering there--screen on, blank thread, nothing waiting. Just a number. Still saved.

I never saved his name.

Just the number. Still sitting there in my contacts, unassigned. A string of digits I hadn't touched since the day I deleted everything else.

I told myself I'd remove it eventually. That it didn't mean anything.

But I didn't.

I wasn't looking for anything. I just... did it. Out of habit. Or maybe out of hope I didn't want to name.

The thread was gone. The message I'd sent to myself--deleted. The photos. The videos. The only thing left was the number.

His number.

Just a string of digits. No name. No photo. No saved contact. Nothing.

I told myself I kept it out of caution. Just in case something went wrong. But nothing had gone wrong.

He'd done what I asked. I'd deleted what I promised. We'd parted the way people do when they know there can't be more.

And yet the number stayed.

A ghost in my phone.

Sometimes I hovered over it. Just stared. Sometimes at night. Sometimes in the middle of class. Sometimes while drying off in the locker room, towel around my waist, glancing toward the far shower stall.

The same one I still never used.

He never came back.

I stopped expecting him to. Eventually, I even told myself I didn't care.

But some nights--late, when everything was still--I'd wonder what I'd say if I saw him again.

I didn't even know his name.

That part made it easier. Cleaner. Like it didn't count.

But then, one night, my phone buzzed.

Just once.

I didn't jump for it. I was lying in bed, half-asleep, the light already off. I almost didn't check it.

But then I did.

It was just a single message.

From that number.

His number.

Hey. I know we said no contact. But I just wanted to say thank you. For all of it.

I've been trying to be better. That day mattered more than I knew how to say.

I'm Nate, I guess. Don't want us to stay as strangers forever.

I stared at the message.

Then read it again.

I didn't write back.

Not yet.

But I didn't delete it either.