I sat slouched on the hard, wooden seat near the back of Mr. Thompson's biology class, feeling every uncomfortable creak and groan of the bench as the lecture dragged on. My eyes glazed over as he went on about sexual reproduction, but my mind—and gaze—was elsewhere.
She was in the second row, just two seats over, leaning forward, her attention glued to her notebook. Her name was Layla. Layla Monroe. I knew it well, even though we'd never spoken a word to each other. She was the kind of girl everyone noticed, with a silky cascade of dark brown hair, falling in smooth waves that framed her tan skin and oval-shaped face. Her eyes, a deep, chocolate brown, had this intense focus to them, the kind that made you feel like she could see right through you if she ever looked your way.
Layla was tall and athletic, her toned legs crossed neatly beneath the desk. Her fitted sweater hugged her in just the right places, accentuating her slim waist and curving over her chest and hips. I felt a small shiver run through me every time she leaned forward, the light catching the slope of her collarbone.
I shifted in my seat, snapping my gaze back to my notebook before anyone noticed. A shy guy like me? No chance I'd catch her eye, not even on a good day. The class went on like usual, just another forty minutes of me barely existing to everyone around me. That's how things always were. I was the kid no one noticed, especially not Layla Monroe.
After class ended, I made my way home. It was a quiet, lonely walk—most of my days were, actually. I'd never been great with people, especially after everything changed at home. My parents had split two years back, and my little sister had gone to live with my mom. I barely saw them anymore. I stayed with my dad, who, within six months, had married Melissa, this insanely beautiful woman he'd met at work. She was probably too young for him; her friends always said so, half-jokingly, whenever they were over.
Melissa was waiting when I walked in, wearing a soft blue blouse that clung to her curves in a way that looked both casual and deliberate. Her hair, a soft auburn color, was pinned back, but loose tendrils fell around her face, framing her high cheekbones and giving her this soft, approachable look. Her eyes, a light, playful green, sparkled as she looked over at me, lips quirking into a grin.
"There you are, finally!" she said with a teasing smile. "Thought I was gonna have to start dinner without you."
I shrugged, trying to keep my cool. "Just… school," I muttered, looking down as I kicked off my shoes.
"Fascinating, as always," she laughed, folding her arms and leaning against the kitchen counter. "Come on, give me one interesting detail from today. Did anything exciting happen?"
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling my cheeks warm up a little. "Not really. Just… the usual stuff."
"Oh, come on!" She arched an eyebrow, crossing one foot over the other. "You're a mystery, you know that?" She laughed lightly, a sound that made me look up. She had this way of looking at me, half-amused and half-patient like she was waiting for me to say something more.
I let out a weak chuckle, mumbling, "Maybe someday." I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and turned away before she could ask anything more. She always managed to fluster me, like she knew just how to poke fun without crossing any lines.
Upstairs, my room was its usual self—messy, with posters plastered on the walls. Some were of bands, but a few were… well, let's just say, models from certain magazines. A guilty hobby, one I'd kept up for years, collecting images of nude women who looked more like fantasies than anything else. It wasn't something I was proud of, exactly, but being shy, I'd learned to live in a world where everything interesting was… well, at a distance.
I pulled out my laptop and clicked open the usual tabs. Nothing special, just the same porn videos I'd turned to whenever I felt the need to escape. It was almost a habit now, a quiet, guilty pleasure when I had the room to myself.
The next day, the entire school was buzzing about Layla's badminton match. She was in the finals, up against Emily Roth, the captain of the rival team. Everyone was talking about it, and I felt a strange pull to see her in action.
The gym was packed, but I found a spot near the back. There she was, stretching, twisting her lean body from side to side, her eyes focused on the court. Layla was wearing the school's athletic gear—a fitted black tank top and shorts that highlighted the toned lines of her legs. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, which swayed with every movement, accentuating the arch of her neck and the slim line of her shoulders. She had a slight flush on her cheeks, and the sheen of sweat made her skin almost glow under the gym lights.
The game began, and I watched, entranced. She moved like she was dancing, every step fluid, every leap graceful as she returned serve after serve. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, and every time she leaned forward, her arms extended, muscles taut and focused. Watching her play stirred something in me. The intensity on her face and the way her eyes narrowed with determination was captivating.
But I could feel something else creeping in, something uncomfortable that had me glancing away, toward the hall. Maybe it was my shyness or how she seemed so… untouchable. Whatever it was, I found myself slipping out of the gym and wandering the empty corridors, eventually ending up at the computer lab.
Inside, it was silent, just the faint hum of old machines. I found a dusty old desktop at the back and turned it on, figuring I'd kill time browsing random sites or watching some porn videos and masturbating to take my mind off things. But the moment the screen flickered on, it was… different.
A face appeared on the screen—well, sort of. It was pixelated, with faint, glowing eyes and a mouth that moved in sync with its words. "Hello," it said in a flat, mechanical voice. "I am PH4NTOM, your relationship guide."
I stared, bewildered. This had to be a joke, some leftover prank someone left on the computer.
But then the voice spoke again. "You seem interested in learning more about relationships."
My heart jumped. Could it somehow… know?
"I… I guess," I muttered, glancing around the room to make sure no one was there.
"Curious about someone specific, perhaps?" the voice said, its tone shifting, almost playful.
I froze, the back of my neck prickling. I knew it couldn't know—no one knew about my crush on her, not even my closest friend. But then it spoke again.
"Her name," it said, its tone a little too certain, "is Layla Monroe."
My heart pounded. How could it possibly…