Frida's fingers trembled as she gathered the scattered notes on her desk, her breath hitching with each piece of paper she touched.
Excitement coursed through her veins, blending with an undercurrent of fear. The thrill was almost unbearable.
He was back.
Her chest tightened at the thought, her mind swirling with possibilities. She scanned the papers, her eyes lingering on the cursive writing that was undeniably different.
A shiver danced down her spine. It couldn't be anyone else. It had to be him.
But what now? Her fingers brushed the edge of her notebook as a reckless idea took shape in her mind.
Could she... should she? If she wrote to him, would he respond?
The thought sent a jolt of adrenaline through her system, and she abruptly stood, searching her bag for something to write on.
Her hands darted through the contents, textbooks, pens, gum wrappers, but no sticky notes. A frustrated groan escaped her lips.
Without a second thought, she slipped on her flip-flops and bolted out of her dorm room, her feet slapping against the tiled hallway floor.
The late evening air was cool, biting against her exposed skin as she sprinted to the convenience store down the block.
Her heart pounded, not just from the exertion but from the growing anticipation gnawing at her.
Inside the brightly lit store, she scanned the aisles with frantic urgency until her eyes landed on a pack of sticky notes.
Red ones. Her hand shot out to grab them, and she hurriedly paid, barely acknowledging the cashier's curious glance.
By the time she returned to her dorm, her breathing was uneven, and her heart was racing.
She slammed the door shut and dropped into her desk chair, the sticky notes clutched tightly in her hand.
For two hours, she stared at the blank red paper, her pen hovering over it.
What could she write that would make him respond?
The minutes stretched into an agonizing eternity as she toyed with different ideas, crossing out words in her mind before they even made it onto the note.
Finally, with a deep breath, she scribbled her phone number in hurried strokes, followed by two simple words:
"Call me."
Her pulse quickened as she placed the sticky note on the edge of the drawer in her dorm.
For a long moment, she stared at it, her stomach twisting with nerves. Had she just done something foolish?
Sleep was a distant hope that night. When she finally crawled into bed, her mind refused to quiet. The note was there, waiting, and so was she.
The next day was excruciating.
She couldn't focus during class, her fingers tapping anxiously on the desk as her thoughts spiraled.
What if he didn't see it? What if he ignored it? What if it wasn't really him?
By lunchtime, the anticipation was eating her alive. She barely touched her food, her gaze flickering to her phone every few seconds. Still, nothing.
Study group was no better. The ticking of the clock felt louder than usual, and every vibration of someone else's phone made her jump.
By the time she returned to her dorm that evening, disappointment weighed heavily on her.
With a resigned sigh, she tucked herself into bed, trying to shake the crushing sense of failure.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and as they finally began to flutter shut, the sound of her phone vibrating jolted her awake.
Her heart nearly stopped.
She fumbled for the device on her nightstand, her hands trembling as she unlocked it.
The message on the screen made her breath catch in her throat.
"Here's what you're not going to do: you don't give me orders."