Lyrics Pov
Atlanta, georgia
Sincere's hand brushed my waist before the beat even dropped.
That low bass from a Rod Wave song was starting to creep through the speakers, one of them ones that made the whole house hush for a second, like even the walls wanted to hear the pain. The lights were dim, red and gold from the cheap LED strips Marcus had tacked up around the ceiling, and the living room was packed shoulder to shoulder—so naturally, we ended up close.
Real close.
He didn't ask to dance. He just... stepped behind me, one hand low on my waist, the other holding his cup like he wasn't about to act up in front of everybody. I was facing forward, pretendin' I was still talkin' to Nyla, but the second I felt his body against mine?
My knees damn near filed a complaint.
"You sure you not shy?" I asked over my shoulder, smirking just enough.
He leaned in, lips brushing my ear when he said, "Only thing I'm scared of is you not backing up into me like I want."
Whew.
Whew.
"Boy—" I started, but then the chorus hit and I lost all focus. He pulled me in just a little, hand sliding to my hip like he owned it, and that's when I felt it—his chain against my back, his breath on my neck, and that pressure.
Yeah. That pressure.
I bit my lip and let myself move with the beat, slow, teasing. Just enough to let him know I wasn't scared either. He stayed quiet behind me, but the way his fingers pressed into my side told me everything I needed.
This wasn't no friendly neighborhood dance.
This was intentional.
We moved like that through the whole song. Like nobody else was there. Like we was dancing in secret, in the dark, where nobody could see but both of us knew exactly what was happening.
Then the song switched.
Something even slower.
Even nastier.
I turned to face him—on instinct. And baby, that look in his eyes?
It said trouble. But the kind that don't come with a warning label. The kind you want anyway.
We stood there, staring at each other, barely swaying.
"You always dance like that?" he asked, voice low and deep like it was meant to be said behind closed doors.
"You always whisper like you trying to get me in trouble?" I shot back.
He licked his bottom lip, smirking. "Trouble ain't the word."
Somebody bumped into me, and I stumbled forward—right into his chest. His arm came around me real smooth, like he wanted that to happen.
"You good?" he said.
I looked up at him from under my lashes, heart wild in my chest.
"Yeah..." I said, breath a little too short. "Just hot."
He leaned down just a bit. "You blaming me?"
I didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Because then, right there in the middle of Marcus' loud-ass house party, with people dancing and cups clinking and hookah clouds floating around us—
He touched my chin. Just lightly. Tilted it up like he wanted to say something serious.
"I ain't from here," he said. "Ain't got no reason to lie. But you? You got me curious as hell."
My heart did a full-blown cartwheel.
"About what?"
He smiled.
"Everything."
Just then, Zaria came crashin' through the crowd.
"Y'all—somebody fighting outside!"
People started rushing to the front porch like flies to drama, yelling and stumbling over the living room furniture. Nyla came running up to me and tugged my hand. "Lyric come on, they say Marcus cousin threw a bottle at that boy from Southview!"
But Sincere didn't move.
And neither did I.
Our eyes stayed locked for just one more second. One more beat.
"You gon' be around?" I asked, voice low.
"I ain't goin' nowhere."
It was 1:43 a.m. when the text came through.
I was laid across my bed, bonnet on, mascara smudged, still smelling like sweat, lip gloss, and house party heat. The music from Marcus' was still echoing in my head, and my body? Still had the memory of Sincere's hands on my waist like they belonged there.
Phone buzzed once.
No name. Just the number I knew was his.
SINCERE:
You make it home alright, Crocs?
I stared at the screen.
Smiled.
Rolled over on my stomach and stared harder.
It wasn't just the message. It was the nickname. The way he remembered the dumbest detail from the first time we met and made it sound... cute.
Not him making me blush in my OWN room at damn near 2 a.m.
I typed out a response.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Deleted that too.
Then just... locked my phone.
My chest was tight, like something was pushing down on it. I wasn't dumb—I knew what this was. He was feeling me. I was feeling him. And the last time I caught feelings like this?
They ran off with my peace of mind and left me crying in the girl's bathroom before third period.
I don't do repeats.
Especially not with boys like him.
By the next morning, I still hadn't replied.
By Monday, his number was still sittin' in my phone—unanswered, unread.
By Wednesday, I'd memorized the message without even opening it again.
You make it home alright, Crocs?
Cute. Stupid. Dangerous.
"So you ghosted him?" Zaria asked, sipping her iced coffee like I'd just confessed to murder. "That's so toxic. I'm proud."
"I'm not being toxic," I muttered, digging through my purse like it held the answers to my emotional instability. "I'm just... backing off."
"For what?" Nyla said, legs crossed, nails tapping on her Hydro Flask. "Y'all danced like y'all was in a slow jam video. Now you scared?"
I didn't answer.
Because yeah—I was.
Sincere didn't move like a high school boy. He moved like a man who already knew how to mess with your head and make you like it. The way he looked at me? Like he already saw all the walls I built up and was plotting on climbing them.
I'm not stupid.
Boys like him? They don't play fair.
Thursday night, 10:58 p.m.
New message.
SINCERE:
Ight. Bet.
That was it. No extra emojis. No "wyd." No double text. Just cold, short, and slightly petty.
I felt that one in my chest.
Because I knew what that meant: he was done reaching out.
And maybe I deserved that.
I stayed up that night watching his story.
Yup—he posted.
First slide: A boomerang of a girl's nails holding his chain.
Second: Him in the Charger, fresh cut, captioned "focused."
No tags. No faces. But still.
I felt stupid.
Real stupid.
Not because he was talking to somebody else now. But because I knew I fumbled.
Out of fear.
Friday night came fast, and Nyla was already trying to drag me to a little kickback over on Monroe Street.
"You coming or nah?" she said through the phone.
I was in bed, bonnet on, hoodie halfway zipped.
"Nah, I'm staying in."
"You gon' keep hiding forever?"
"I'm not hiding."
"Then what are you doing?"
"...I don't know."
She sighed. "If he pulls up and you're not there, don't cry about it."
"I won't."
Lie.
The kickback
I swear I wasn't gon' go.
That was the original plan: stay in, binge old episodes of Moesha, scroll past his story like I wasn't pressed, and act like my heart didn't sink every time his name popped up in bold.
But around 9:17 p.m., Nyla texted me:
"He might be at the kickback on 7th. Just saying. Wear those stacked jeans."
At 9:20 I replied:
"Girl I'm not going."
At 9:48?
I was in the mirror laying my edges and putting on the same lip gloss I said I was "retiring."
That's the thing about fear—it's loud when you're alone, but regret? Regret scream-whispers in your ear when you see someone else laughing with the boy you ghosted.
The party was already in full swing when we got there. It was one of those basement joints—low ceilings, cheap strip lights that blinked too fast, the whole place smelling like Black ice, weed, and Henny breath.
I had on those jeans. You know the ones—high-waisted, make your waist look snatched and your ass look like a blessing. Black top. Clean kicks. My hair was up in a high puff, curls falling just enough to look like I didn't try too hard.
I walked in cool.
But inside?
My chest was doing laps.
Because I saw him right away.
Sincere.
Posted up in the back, leaned against the wall like the room wasn't hot as hell. White tee, clean gold on his neck, hood half up like he wanted to hide but knew he couldn't. And he wasn't alone.
There was a girl.
Light skin. Box braids down her back. Laughing hard at something he said, even though I know damn well Sincere not that funny. He barely smile, let alone joke.
"Breathe," Nyla whispered beside me. "You good."
"I'm not going over there," I mumbled, pretending to fix my purse strap like I wasn't absolutely rethinking my entire personality.
"You ain't gotta," she said. "Because he already clocked you."
I glanced up.
He was staring.
Not blinking.
Not smiling.
Just... looking. Dead through me.
An hour passed. I pretended to be deep in conversation with Zaria about a boy I didn't even like. But every laugh felt fake. Every sip of my drink felt heavy.
Then, just like that, I turned—and there he was.
Standing right behind me.
Close.
Voice calm but cold as ice water:
"You finally showed up."
I froze.
Turned slowly, keeping my face together even though my heart damn near dropped to the soles of my Air Maxes. "Hey—"
"Nah," he said, shaking his head. "Don't 'hey' me."
The whole room didn't get quiet, but the energy around us did. People could feel it. Eyes started shifting, side-glances creeping in. But Sincere didn't care. His words were low, sharp, too calm.
"You saw my text," he said. "You read it. Sat with it. Then left me on read like I was some corny-ass boy from your DMs."
"Sincere—"
"You coulda said anything," he cut me off. "You coulda said you wasn't feelin' me, you got scared, you not ready. Something. But you said nothing."
I swallowed hard. I wanted to speak. I had words—somewhere—but they weren't moving.
"You said you wasn't used to real?" he continued, stepping closer. "That's your excuse?"
I finally managed: "I just— I didn't wanna mess anything up."
He laughed.
Not loud. Not bitter. Just hurt.
"You already did."
That stung.
"I'm not like these other dudes, Lyric. I was never playin' wit you."
"I know."
"Do you?" he asked, eyes locked on mine. "'Cause you ghosted me like I was disposable. Like I was a phase."
"I was scared."
"Of what?"
"Of getting close to somebody who could actually hurt me."
He stared.
Then nodded slow. "You think that's just you?"
I blinked. That part hit me right in the chest.
"You think I was out here just casually vibin' with you? Just dancin' for fun? Just texting to pass time?" he said. "You ain't the only one who got hurt before, Lyric. But I ain't push you away for it."
My throat tightened.
"Sincere, I'm sorry."
He looked away for a second. Then right back at me.
"You know what's worse than being lied to?" he said. "Being left with silence. That shit echo."
And with that—he stepped back.
Turned around.
And walked away.
Didn't look back.
Didn't give me a second glance.
Just disappeared into the crowd like he was erasing me from whatever could've been.
I didn't cry at the party.
But when I got home?
I stared at the ceiling in the dark for an hour.
My phone sat on my nightstand. Quiet. Heavy. Still no new messages.
Because this time?
He was the one ghostin' me.
And I couldn't even blame him.