You wake up screaming—but no sound fills the room. Something is seriously NOT Right.
You straighten upright in a panic. Your body somehow light and airy. You look down at your hands and see the couch cushion through them. Every thread and fiber of the fabric visible through your translucent fingers.
You try to grab the armrest. It's like pressing into hot wax—slow resistance, your hand sinking through the surface before finding any purchase. You can push, you can press, but you can't GRIP. You can't hold. You are barely here. "What is going on?"
Then you hear her. Breathing. Slow. Rhythmic. Impossibly close.
Zoe is curled on the couch five feet from you—oversized hoodie, legs tucked up, one hand beneath her cheek. Hair fanned across the cushion. Lips parted, soft, pink, perfect. A thin line of drool catching the dim light. She murmurs something and shifts, hips rolling, blanket sliding to expose one bare thigh.
Zoe. Your crush. Asleep. Alone. She exhales softly and mumbles sweetly in her sleep, blissfully unaware of your presence.
The warmth radiating off her pulls at whatever you're made of now. Your ethereal form drifts closer without you deciding to move. You're standing over her—looking down at the rise and fall of her chest, the curve of her neck, the sliver of stomach where her hoodie has ridden up. Her perfect body, laying peacefully before you. You can feel the heat of her even without touching.
What do you do?