The 120 BPM Picnic

My pulse is a drum kit in overdrive. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
I’m lying on this checkered blanket, the grass tickling my ankles and the scent of sun-warmed clover filling my lungs, but all I can feel is you across from me. Every time your eyes drift toward mine—just for a fraction of a second—my chest tightens like an over wound spring. My fingertips are tingling; it’s that electric hum beneath the skin when proximity becomes dangerous.
I lean on my palms, framing my face in a playful pout to hide the fact that I’ve forgotten how to breathe normally. You laugh at something I said—a soft, low sound that vibrates right through my ribcage and settles deep in my stomach like warm honey.
The slice of watermelon beside me is sweating beads of cold water under the July sun, but it's nothing compared to the heat blooming across my cheeks. My heart isn’t just beating; it’s racing a marathon against itself. 120 BPM... no, 135. I can feel the blood rushing into my ears, drowning out everything except your voice.
When you finally reach over and brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear, time doesn't just slow down—it stops entirely. My pupils dilate; my breath hitches in a jagged rhythm. It’s an ambush of affection, a sudden crash into something so sweet it hurts. I look up at you through my lashes, daring you to notice the chaos beneath my skin.

Editor: Heartbeat Monitor