Like a question.
Please.
I don’t say it.
But I feel it.
Everywhere.
I want this.
I want him.
I’ve wanted him since I was eight years old and didn’t have a word for it.
Just — once.
Let me have this just once.
He exhales.
Soft and unsteady.
Like he’s right there with me.
Like he’s just as gone as I am.
Our lips are almost — almost —
But then — he stops.
Pulls back just enough to break it.
Not far.
Just enough.
Enough to remind me.
There’s always something in the way.
“Ro,” he says quietly, like he’s steadying both of us. “You can’t look at me like that.”
My chest drops.
“I wasn’t,” I lie.
He huffs out a soft breath, shaking his head slightly.
But his hand lingers on my face.
A second.
Two.
Like he can’t quite make himself let go.
Then he does.
