Not peaceful or comforting.
Just quiet in the way a place feels when you’re alone with your own thoughts.
I lock the door, lean my forehead against it for a second, and inhale.
My mouth still tingles and my throat still feels like his lips are there.
I toss my keys into the bowl by the entryway and shrug off my jacket like I’m shedding a version of myself I don’t want to look at.
Then I walk to the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and drink half of it in one pull.
It doesn’t help.
Because it’s not thirst.
It’s nerves.
It’s the way my body is still waiting for him to follow me home.
It’s the way I’m already replaying that kiss like it’s proof of something I don’t want to admit.
I set the glass down and stare at my reflection in the dark window above the sink.
My lipstick is slightly smudged.
My eyes look too bright.
My chest rises and falls like I just ran.
‘Normal night,’I think, and the thought is almost funny now.
Tonight wasn’t normal.
The parking lot definitely wasn’t.
And the part of me that wants to pretend it’s fine is the same part that’s been lying to itself for years.
I walk to my living room and sit on the couch, hands clenched in my lap.
I try to think through it like a problem. Like a PR crisis. Like a narrative I can control if I choose the right words.
But this isn’t an article I can edit.
This is mylife.
My heart.
His mouth on my throat.
My own voice saying, “You devastate me. You always have.”
I close my eyes.
The worst part is… I meant it.
Not in the dramatic way. Not in themovieway.
In the simple, brutal way where some people touch you once and you never stop feeling it.
