I bite my lip.
It’s a bad habit I’ve had for a while.
I often clamp down so hard, my lip will bleed.
Now, it’s bleeding. Right now, I’m nervous. I’m lost.
I’m lying in bed with the covers pulled up over my head, my iPod Touch is in my hands. The glow emanating from the screen lights up my face, which I can imagine is milk white.
My house is quiet. The lights are off, and my parents and sister are sleeping. It’s pitch black, except for the cold red numbers on my digital clock, which read 2:44 a.m.
I’m warm in my bed, but my insides are frozen with uncontrollable trepidation.
My thumb repeatedly taps the ‘Refresh’ button in the top right corner.
I’m waiting for a message. I imagine it will be a large one, words full of wisdom that will clear my mind. Calm my breathing. Slow my heartbeat.
Then it arrives.
I was right. A meaty paragraph that screams the truth.
I read it once.
Then again.
One more time, slowly now.
I swallow the lump caught in my throat, and blink back tears that threaten to stream down my cheeks like a gushing river.
But I don’t cry.
Because I will never, ever cry for a boy.
Instead,

I bite my lip.