The Kiss
He kissed me like he meant it.
It started slow, his lips grazing the soft skin just below my collarbone. Warm. Careful. Intentional, even. He trailed up my chest with steady purpose, like he was memorizing his favourite song, his mouth brushing over the swell of my breast, my shoulder, the curve of my neck. Every pause was deliberate, like he was waiting for my body to beg for the next.
His tongue flicked lightly at the hollow of my throat. His breath was hot, his mouth open just enough to leave behind something more than pressure. I felt him smile against my skin. He knew exactly what he was doing. He thought I wanted it just as much.
His hands were everywhere, sliding across my ribs, my thighs, up my spine, fingers curling possessively before finally settling at my waist, pulling me in like I belonged there.
By the time he reached my mouth, his moans had grown louder. His lips were soft, parted just enough to taste the moment. He kissed me with slow hunger, like he’d been thinking about it for days, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it. His breath deepened. Mine should have.
It wasn’t a bad kiss. That’s the thing, I can’t even say it was. His breath slowed down like he was caught up in something real. His lips moved like he was tasting something sweet. His hand tilted my chin. Mine tangled in his hair. I bit his lip, just to see how he’d respond. He groaned low in his throat, and for a second, lost control of himself. I gave him all the right signals.
But inside?
It was silent.
No heartbeat skip. No stomach drop. No rush of heat.
Just me, pretending it felt like something it didn’t.
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I kept thinking, Maybe the next time.
Maybe if we kissed again.
Maybe if I stayed the night.
Maybe if I tried harder to feel it.
He said all the right things after. Called me “baby” like it belonged to me already. Played with my fingers while we lay side by side. Told me about his past like it was a gift, like I was someone worth handing it to.
And I liked him.
God, I did.
Or I liked the idea of liking him.
He was safe. Sweet. Thoughtful in the small ways that matter. He remembered bright lights made my head hurt, what time I had class and that I hated when things got too loud. I should’ve fallen. I wanted to.
But every time he kissed me, I wanted my body to respond naturally, not because I was willing it to.
Still, I stayed. Because how do you walk away from someone who’s doing everything right? How do you explain nothing’s wrong, except the part where you don’t feel what you’re supposed to?
Eventually, he felt it too. I saw it in the way he stopped reaching for my hand first. How his voice dimmed when we spoke. How he stopped asking if I was okay after we kissed.
We never had the conversation. We didn’t need to.
Some endings are loud.
Ours was a quiet realization passed between mouths that once pretended to want each other.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
He kissed me like he meant it.
And I kissed him like I wished I could mean it back.
