I can’t say that I like you. Not that I don’t like you. It’s just that I’m not allowed to say so, and the moment I say it, I’m in serious trouble.

If you think about it, I dropped a hint. You didn’t realise that I’d blocked everyone because I needed to be in control again. I unblocked you, only you, and sent a friend request because I needed to. I watched and you accepted my request within seconds. You looked surprised because you thought we were already friends.

You searched the room and found me. That brief glance that made me realise I’d guessed correctly. That moment that seemed to last forever.

“Hey,” you messaged.

“Hey back,” I replied.

“What are you up to?”

If I’d been sober, I might have said, “Navy boy. You are funny looking. You are skinny. Worse than that, you have a girlfriend.”

But I wasn’t sober and typed out my response.

“I like Navy boys. I like that you are called Bailey. I like that you are slim. I like your smooth olive skin. I like those dreamy eyes that give you away. I like that you have a girlfriend but flirt with me. Above all else, I like that cheekiness.”

My finger hesitated, and I didn’t send it.

Instead, I wrote, “Love your cheek. Never lose it. Stay gold.” I added that last bit because it was a line from my favourite movie.

“Eh?” you asked.

“Just continue to be yourself.”

“Thank you,” came your reply.

That was how we left it, and I woke up the next day relieved that I hadn’t given myself away.

But there was a time last night when I had my back turned and someone squeezed my arse. I swung round and it was you. I would have begged you to do it again, but olive turned to crimson, and you quickly walked away.

And so, this miserable orgasm of life meanders blindly on. You won’t message me because I scare you, and I can’t message you because I am equally scared of the consequences.