Something About You

What is he doing? Why is he doing this?

Layla closed the door behind her and exhaled deeply, the sound echoing faintly in her quiet apartment. The weight of the day clung to her like a heavy blanket, and for a moment, she leaned her back against the door, eyes closed, savoring the rare stillness. Living alone in London had its perks—no one asking questions, no one fussing over her—but it also meant moments like these, when the silence felt heavier than usual.

With a sigh, she slipped off her shoes and dragged herself toward the small bed tucked in the corner of her room. Collapsing onto the mattress, she let her body sink into the softness, her head throbbing slightly as exhaustion settled in. She stretched her limbs lazily, eyes fluttering shut, until something on the edge of her vision caught her attention.

There, draped over a chair near the wardrobe, was Aaron’s jersey—the same one he had given her after the match. It lay neatly folded in half, still soft from the wash but not yet tucked away in the closet.

Layla blinked, pulling herself upright with some reluctance, and swung her legs off the side of the bed. For a moment, she just sat there, staring at the jersey from across the room, as if it carried a secret she couldn’t quite decipher. She chewed her lip, hesitant, but eventually rose to her feet and shuffled over, the soft fabric brushing against her fingers as she picked it up.

She sat back down on the edge of the bed, the jersey draped over her lap. Her thumb grazed the stitched number on the back—22—her mind replaying the moment Aaron had handed it to her without a second thought, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His scent still clung faintly to the material, a subtle reminder of mint and sweat, stirring memories she wasn’t sure she wanted to revisit.

Layla sighed again, longer this time, clutching the jersey a little tighter. She didn't know why she was holding onto it like this—why it felt like something more than just a piece of clothing. Maybe it was because, for the first time in a long while, someone had noticed her, given her something that wasn’t just another obligation or a task. Or maybe it was because it was Aaron, and no matter how hard she tried to keep things professional, the lines between them kept blurring in the oddest ways.

She let out a frustrated laugh under her breath, shaking her head. What am I even doing? she thought, running her fingers through her hair. It was just a jersey, nothing more.

And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to fold it and put it away. Instead, she sat there a little longer, holding it close, as if somehow, in the quiet of her apartment, the jersey could offer answers to questions she didn’t know how to ask.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally laid the jersey across her lap and leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes. Maybe tomorrow things would make more sense. Or maybe they wouldn’t. But for now, she let herself hold onto the moment, however fleeting it might be.

After sitting with the jersey for what felt like ages, Layla inhaled deeply and gave herself a little shake. Get it together, she told herself silently. She carefully folded the fabric, smoothing the edges with her hands as if the neatness could somehow bring order to the messy thoughts swirling in her head. With the jersey folded, she stood up and opened the wardrobe.

She crouched down, pulling the door wider to make room at the bottom shelf. That’s where she kept things she didn’t know what to do with—old clothes, worn-out shoes, and items too sentimental to throw away yet not meaningful enough to keep within reach. It was an unintentional graveyard of forgotten pieces of her life.

As she slid Aaron’s jersey onto the bottom shelf, her fingers brushed against a familiar fabric tucked deep within the pile. The fabric was soft and faded, yet it stood out the moment she touched it.

Her heart gave a strange tug as she pulled it out—a pale blue blouse, neatly folded but crumpled with age. Layla stared at it for a moment, her thumb tracing the fraying hem. She hadn’t worn it in years—four, to be exact. She’d tucked it away when life had started to shift too quickly, leaving little room for who she used to be.

A smile ghosted her lips, small but genuine, as memories of simpler times surfaced. It was a blouse she used to wear often, one that felt like home in a way clothes sometimes did—back when life wasn’t filled with hospital schedules, pressure, and expectations. She’d forgotten how much she liked it until now, when the faint scent of old fabric brought pieces of her younger self back into focus.

Without thinking too hard about it, Layla shifted some clothes around in the wardrobe, clearing space among the items she wore regularly. She placed the blouse on top of the newer clothes, as if to welcome it back into her life after all this time.

Satisfied, she gave it one last glance, then shut the wardrobe door softly. There was something oddly comforting about the simple act—like reclaiming a part of herself she didn’t realize she’d lost.

She took a step back, arms crossed, staring at the closed door of the wardrobe for a moment longer. The little smile lingered as she whispered to herself, “About time.”

And with that, she finally felt ready to crawl back into bed, pulling the blanket over her as the sounds of rain continued to patter gently against the window.

Just as Layla was settling under the blanket, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it lazily, expecting a notification or reminder, but when she saw her mother’s name lighting up the screen, she hesitated briefly before answering.

“Hi, Mom,” she greeted, her voice soft.

“Layla! How are you?” her mother asked, her tone warm but tinged with that familiar concern she always carried.

“I just got home from work,” Layla replied, shifting to sit against the headboard.

“Don’t push yourself too hard, okay? You’ve only just started.”

“I know, I know,” Layla responded with a faint smile. “How are things back home? How’s Dante?”

Her mother’s voice brightened at the mention of Layla’s younger brother. “Oh, he’s good. He’s been busy with school—he’s got some big project and, of course, asked me to buy half the supplies in the store.”

Layla chuckled softly. “That sounds about right.”

The conversation continued naturally, flowing through the familiar rhythm of family updates—her mother venting about life with her stepfather, Dante’s latest obsessions, and gossip from neighbors. It was a conversation like many others, but today, something weighed heavier on Layla’s mind.

Aaron’s words from earlier kept replaying in her head. “It reminds me of Bali.”

Without fully realizing it, she found herself asking, “Mom, did we ever go to Bali?”

Her mother went quiet for a second, thinking. “We did… once, when you were really little. Maybe four or five? We stayed at a beach resort for a few days.”

Layla frowned slightly, trying to conjure any memory of it, but nothing came. “I don’t remember.”

“That’s not surprising,” her mother said with a light laugh. “It was a long time ago. And I don’t think you ever went back—at least not with me.”

Layla’s chest tightened slightly at that. Her fingers absently toyed with the hem of the blanket as memories of their family life—fractured and distant—came rushing back.

“Maybe you went with your dad,” her mother continued, though she didn’t sound certain. “We weren’t really in touch after the divorce.”

The familiar ache of those words settled over Layla. It wasn’t new, just the reality of their relationship—split into two halves. After her parents separated when she was eight, Layla had lived with her father while her mother built a new life with her stepfather, and they’d never fully reconnected.

“Oh,” Layla whispered. “Maybe.”

There was a brief pause, as if her mother sensed the heaviness in Layla’s voice. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asked gently.

Layla blinked, realizing how quiet she’d gone. “Yeah,” she lied, forcing a small smile even though her mother couldn’t see it. “Just... thinking.”

“If you need to talk about anything, I’m always here, okay?”

“I know. Thanks, Mom.”

They exchanged a few more words, the conversation drifting back to lighter topics before they finally said their goodbyes. When Layla hung up, she placed her phone on the nightstand, but her mind stayed with the conversation.

Bali. Why had Aaron mentioned it? And why couldn’t she remember being there?

She sat in silence for a while, her thoughts swirling. It felt strange—like a piece of her childhood had slipped through the cracks, lost in the years she spent trying to hold herself together after her parents split. The idea unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Layla lay back down, staring at the ceiling as the rhythmic patter of rain against the window filled the quiet room. She closed her eyes, hoping sleep would come quickly, but her mind refused to quiet. Aaron’s words—so casual, yet so disarming—stuck with her.

And the knot of unanswered questions tightened in her chest, pulling her deeper into thoughts she hadn’t expected to revisit tonight.

Layla tossed and turned under the blanket, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her, but sleep remained stubbornly out of reach. With a groan, she flung the blanket off and sat up, rubbing her face in frustration. Her room was dim, the only sound coming from the soft patter of rain outside, but inside her head, thoughts buzzed like restless bees.

She let out a heavy sigh, running her hands through her messy hair before resting her forehead against her knees. Her mind circled back—again and again—to Aaron’s words. Bali.

“Why the hell am I even thinking about this?” she muttered under her breath, clenching her fists against her temples.

The rational part of her brain knew it didn’t mean anything. Maybe Aaron had just said it in passing—like she reminded him of something random from the trip, a flower, or maybe even some beach view. It could be nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“God, stop overthinking!” she scolded herself, slapping the side of her head gently with both hands, as if the action could force her thoughts to behave. “He probably didn’t even mean it like that.”

But the idea gnawed at her anyway. Why Bali? Why not something else?

She let out a sharp exhale, her frustration mounting. Why the hell am I like this? She scowled and gave her head another light thump, as if punishing herself for being so ridiculous.

"It’s just Aaron being Aaron," she whispered harshly. "Don’t overanalyze it, Layla. You know better." But the words sounded hollow even as she said them.

Still, the spiral kept going. She was embarrassed—angry even—at herself for giving his words so much space in her head. "You i***t," she muttered, "he probably just thought you looked like... like... I don’t know, some random frangipani flower or something."

She groaned, gripping her hair tightly before flopping backward onto the bed with a frustrated thud. "It’s not like he’s thinking about it now, so why are you?"

Layla dragged the blanket over her face and let out a muffled scream into the fabric. She knew better than to read too much into things—especially things that came from someone like Aaron. Yet here she was, dissecting his words like they held some hidden meaning when they probably meant nothing at all.

"Playboy," she mumbled bitterly under her breath, as if the word itself could put an end to her foolish thoughts. She punched her pillow for good measure, willing herself to stop being so ridiculous.

It’s nothing, Layla, she told herself firmly. It’s just a word. Just Bali.

But even as she closed her eyes again, the knot in her chest refused to loosen. And despite her best efforts, the familiar scent of mint and the way Aaron’s gaze had lingered on her slipped back into her mind, dragging her into restless thoughts once more.

She sighed in defeat, staring at the ceiling as the rain drummed a soft rhythm outside. "I’m such an i***t," she whispered, resigned.

Sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight, and she knew it.

Just as Layla was starting to settle into the idea of getting absolutely no sleep tonight, her phone buzzed beside her, the screen lighting up in the dim room. She groaned and reached for it, already bracing herself for another message from her mom reminding her to take her vitamins or scolding her for not sleeping early.

With a tired sigh, she unlocked her phone, expecting a wall of motherly concern. Instead, her eyes froze on a notification that made her heart skip a beat.

Instagram: 1 request message.

Layla squinted, her brain still foggy. She tapped on the message, figuring it would just be some random spam request. But as the message loaded, her breath caught in her throat.

Aaron Bekker.

@aaronbekker

15M followers. Verified.

She stared at the screen, jaw dropping open. Her heart started racing in disbelief. There, sitting innocently at the top of her DMs, was a message from him—Aaron, the guy she’d spent the last hour mentally yelling at, the guy she was trying not to think about, and definitely the last person she expected to hear from right now.

She tapped the message with shaky fingers, the room suddenly feeling too quiet, the rain outside somehow muffled. And then she saw it.

aaronbekker:

Everything alright, B?

Sarah said u didn’t look well

Are you sick?

Where are you?

Layla blinked at the message, her brain stuttering to process what she was seeing. The text was so… casual. Like he genuinely cared. Like he had noticed her during the game and was now worried about her. Like it wasn’t a big deal that a football star with fifteen million followers was sliding into her DMs in the middle of the night to check on her.

“What the—” Layla whispered, completely dumbfounded. Her thumb hovered over the screen, rereading the message as if it might disappear at any moment.

This couldn’t be real. No way. No way Aaron—the same guy who just hours ago had been joking about her smile and Bali—was now sending her a worried message like this.

Layla leaned back against the headboard, clutching the phone in disbelief. A whirlwind of emotions swirled in her chest—confusion, anxiety, disbelief, and, beneath it all, something warm and unsettling.

She knew she needed to respond, but her brain felt like static. What was she even supposed to say? Thanks, but why the hell are you messaging me? Or, No worries, I’m fine, just overthinking your weird Bali comment like a lunatic. Yeah, no. That wouldn’t work.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind scrambling for a normal response. But nothing felt right. So instead, she just sat there, staring at the message, as if it might reveal some hidden meaning she couldn’t see yet.

And all the while, one thought screamed in the back of her mind: What is he doing? Why is he doing this?

As the rain continued to fall outside her window, Layla clutched the phone tighter and let out a disbelieving laugh under her breath. This night just kept getting weirder and weirder.

Layla let out a slow breath, her thumb still hovering over the keyboard. The message stared back at her, demanding a response she didn’t know how to give. A part of her wanted to type something—anything—just to stop the spinning questions in her mind. But another part, the louder, more cautious part, told her it was better to leave it alone.

Don’t overthink it, Layla. He’s probably just being polite. No need to make this a bigger deal than it is, she told herself.

With a sigh, she clicked out of the message, leaving Aaron’s words unanswered. Her chest tightened slightly as she set the phone on her nightstand, screen-down, as if that would block out the thought of him waiting for a reply.

“Not tonight,” she whispered to herself, dragging her hands down her face. “I’m too tired for this.”

She pulled the blanket up over her head, squeezing her eyes shut, hoping sleep would take over soon. But her heart was still racing, her mind replaying every interaction they’d had today—the mint scent, the Bali comment, and now this message.

Why is he even messaging me? she thought, frustrated at the way her mind clung to it. It doesn’t mean anything. He probably doesn’t even remember half the things he says to people. You’re overreacting. Stop it.

She buried her face deeper into the pillow, as if smothering the swirling thoughts would help. She needed sleep. Desperately. Yet Aaron’s voice lingered in her mind, teasing her, making her question things she didn’t want to question.

Layla squeezed her eyes shut tighter. You’re done thinking about him. No more wondering. No more overanalyzing.

She exhaled through her nose and tried to focus on the sound of the rain pattering against the window. It was soothing, in a way, like a lullaby drawing her toward sleep. Slowly but surely, her breathing evened out, and the tension in her body began to melt away.

Her phone stayed silent beside her, the message unread and unanswered. And finally, after what felt like an eternity, Layla drifted off into uneasy sleep, hoping that when morning came, the whole strange night would feel like nothing more than a dream.