"It can happen so fast," you whispered. Not a question. An acknowledgment.
My heart knocked against my ribs. We were still sitting on the floor, surrounded by old sweaters and forgotten books, but the space between us had become electric. I could feel the heat from your arm, inches from mine. I could smell your perfume—something soft with vanilla undertones.
Afterward, you lie side by side on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The dust motes dance in the afternoon light, same as before. But nothing is the same. tara tainton it can happen so fast
Instead, I leaned in.
You nodded, your fingers tracing the edge of the photograph. "You left early. Said you had a headache." "It can happen so fast," you whispered
"Did I?" I barely remembered leaving. But I remembered wanting to stay.
When I opened them, you were closer. Close enough that I could see the gold flecks in your irises. Close enough that breathing felt like a shared act. My heart knocked against my ribs
Our eyes met over the open pages. Something shifted—subtle as a change in air pressure before a storm. You didn't look away. Neither did I.