Do you remember that night in your house? Please don’t say no. I know you’ve had your share of girls, but this is me we’re talking about, and you shouldn’t just forget about me.
It’s kind of funny, really, when you think about it: we’ve known each other for years. Our mundane conversations never go beyond you asking me to hook you up with girls or me telling you to take a shot of gin like a man. We never even got to know each other before you pressed me up against your kitchen counter.
The cold tile against my back, your warmth through your thin shirt against my chest. My lips were dry before yours touched them. My heart seemed dead until I felt yours beating.
Lips. Tongues. Hands. Hair.
For ten minutes, I was in love.
No, I’m not in love with you. I don’t know you nearly well enough to even like you. But for that kiss, I pretended I did, and I felt the way I never thought I’d feel again, ever—I felt alive, tingly, electrified, in love.
This is why that kiss means a lot to me. It’s not because I love you, like you, or even have a crush on you. It’s because when I was wilting, you came and breathed life into me.
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