She finally went home that night — after almost giving me a heart attack, a nervous breakdown, and possibly a very real addiction to hoodies.
I thought that was it. Thought I’d survived.
> "Goodnight, Virgin Boy 💋"
Then she video-called, just to kiss me goodnight. On screen. For a full five seconds. With eye contact.
I didn’t even know goodnight kisses could be traumatizing.
The next morning at school... I was still recovering, emotionally, physically and possibly spiritually and that’s when she walked up to me — all smiles and chaos — like she hadn’t just melted my brain the night before.
"Hey babe," she said, arms full of books and chaos. "So, I’ve been thinking..."
That was already a red flag.
She only "thought" when it meant the emotional or physical safety of others was in direct danger.
"... and I realized," she continued, "that you only keep pulling away sometimes because I’m too much of a brat."
I blinked, slowly. Like I was buffering.
She looped her arm through mine like we were in a K-drama, swinging our limbs like we hadn’t almost done something totally irreversible a few days ago. I hadn’t even responded yet. She didn’t care.
"And so," she said sweetly, "I decided to change."
My brain short-circuited again.
"I know!" she gasped. "Gross. But I figured... since I want to be the best girlfriend ever—and I do—I should practice. Y’know, relationship stuff."
I hesitated. "Cel—Val... what exactly do you mean by relationship stuff?"
She stopped walking, turned to me with the kind of innocent smile that probably got Adam kicked out of Eden, and said:
"Like... holding hands. Feeding you lunch. Sitting on your lap in public. Whispering into your ear in front of other girls so they know you’re taken. You know... girlfriend things."
She actually made finger quotes.
I stared at her, speechless.
She pulled me into the cafeteria like we were late for prom. "Come on, I brought grapes. I’m feeding you grapes today."
She actually fed me. One grape. At a time.
Making eye contact with everyone nearby.
"Open wide," she grinned. "There we go, good boy."
Then she whispered—loudly enough for the entire population of our table to hear—
"You’ve got a little juice on your lip. Want me to lick it off or should I use a tissue like normal people?"
My soul tried to eject itself from my body.
"I’ll use the tissue," I muttered. "Thanks."
She leaned in anyway and kissed the corner of my lips, then smiled like she’d just d to charity.
Later, in the hallway, we sat on a bench waiting for our next class.
She was quiet for all of seven seconds.
> "So, let’s say I want to, like... suck your dick."
I nearly choked on my own tongue.
"I’m serious," she said, deadpan. "Do I ask first? Or do we have, like, signals for that kind of thing?"
"I—Valentina—oh my God."
> "That’s not a yes or no, babe."
I was vibrating from emotional shock.
She shrugged. "Fine, I’ll google it later."
End of the day, back at my locker, I was a shadow of a man.
She leaned against the locker beside mine like we were in a teen drama, all sexy smirk and smug posture. "So, how’d I do today? As a girlfriend?"
I turned to her, dead serious. "You made me question the stability of my entire nervous system."
She beamed. "That means I nailed it."
Then, like it was the most casual thing in the world, she added, "I’m gonna practice kissing next. I hear repetition builds muscle memory."
I opened my mouth to protest—she didn’t wait. Just grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me into a kiss so soft and slow I forgot we were at school. Forgot my name. Forgot I had lungs.
She pulled back a little and whispered, "You’re blushing. That’s so cute."
And as I walked beside her out of school, arm in arm, heart pounding like I’d just finished a marathon, I realized something terrifying.
She wasn’t getting better.
I was just getting used to it.
And that was so, so much worse.