I didn’t even know what people our age were supposed to say after something like that. We were thirteen. Most kids were still joking about cooties, not… whatever this was.
So, I typed it.
Hey.
And hit send.
Then I waited, watching the little bubble stay stubborn and still. Nothing. I showered, got dressed, came back, and still nothing.
By noon, the knot in my stomach had turned sharp.
I went outside, walked to the edge of our yard, and stared down the street, half-hoping I’d see him skateboarding or walking to the park or heading to my house like he always did on Sundays.
But the sidewalk remained empty.
Around four, I spotted him. Dare was down the street,walking his bike up the driveway, as if it weighed too much to ride. I lifted my hand halfway in a wave, but he didn’t glance up. Didn’t even pause. Just turned and disappeared into the garage as if I were invisible.
As if nothing had happened between us in that dark closet the night before.
My throat burned. I went back inside, climbed into bed, and checked my phone again.
Still nothing. I deleted a text and typed another.
That thing last night… it’s okay. I won’t say anything.
I stared at it for a long time, going over last night in my head. Everything he said, I said, the kiss. In the end, I didn’t send it.
Then I tried again.
Is this about your Dad? Are you scared of what he’ll say?
But I deleted that too.
Instead, I shut off my phone and lay back down, watching shadows dance above me, wondering when it would stop hurting. Wondering if he was trying to forget me already.
I told myself maybe he was just embarrassed. Maybe he needed time. Space. Maybe he was trying to figure things out the same way I was, trying to make sense of how something so small could feel so big. Or maybe he hadn’t thought about it since. Maybe he’d already forgotten.
But I hadn’t.
I couldn’t.
I kept replaying it over and over. The feel of his breath against my face. The way he leaned back in. How he kissed me like he meant it.
It was the kind of kiss that made everything tilt. Had I been standing crooked my whole life and didn’t even know it until his lips touched mine? Maybe it wasn’t the kiss at all. Maybe it was my reaction to it that bothered him so much.
And now? Now I was falling, and no one was there to catch me.
I wandered into the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of cereal I didn’t want. I stared at the flakes while they got soggy, the spoon never even touching the milk. My mom passed by and kissed the top of my head, humming a song under her breath.
She didn’t notice the festering wound beneath my skin. The way I flinched when she touched me like I might break apart.
“I might go to the park later,” I told her.
“I’ll prep lunch for you and Dare while you’re gone,” she said, already moving toward the laundry room.
I said nothing. Didn’t bother to correct her. Because… Not anymore.
I ended up sitting on the porch for half an hour, phone in hand, constantly refreshing for a reply that never came. I scrolled back through our old texts—inside jokes, plans to hang out, pictures of his new skateboard, a blurry selfie of the two of us making dumb faces at the skate ramp.
