There's something about standing that close to someone while your heart threatens to stage a dramatic exit through your throat. And he's still not backing away.
His words are still in the air—"I do. I shouldn't. But I do." They echo. They burn. They turn every breath I take into something sharp and complicated.
I feel like I'm vibrating. Like my whole body's been turned into a wire stretched too tight.
"You said you were straight," I whisper, needing to remind both of us. Needing something to hold onto. "You said—"
"I said what I thought I had to say," he murmurs. His voice is low, like a confession he's scared will catch fire. "Back then, that was survival. Now… I'm just trying to figure things out."
I nod like I understand. I don't. Not really. But I want to. God, I want to.
And then he does something I don't expect—he moves even closer. Inches now. Maybe less. The kind of close that rewrites gravity.
I forget how to exist properly.
His eyes are locked on mine, flicking down to my mouth for the briefest second. It's not subtle. It's not careful. It's not nothing.
"I'm gonna do something stupid," he mutters.
Before I can even blink, his lips meet mine.
But it's not soft. Not hesitant. It's full. Heavy. The kind of kiss that isn't asking for anything—it's just giving. All the tension, the distance, the unsaid things between us—it pours out of him like a dam finally cracking.
I don't move at first. Not because I don't want to, but because I'm shocked by how much it feels like falling. Like drowning in something warm.
His hands hover near my sides but don't touch. He kisses like he's trying not to take too much. Like he's starved but scared to bite. Obsessive, but not lustful. Intense, but not demanding.
I melt into it. Just a little. And then he pulls back, breath ragged, eyes wide with regret.
"Sorry," he whispers, voice shaking. "That—wasn't fair. I shouldn't have—"
"I didn't hate it," I cut in, breath shaky. "But I—can't think right now."
He nods quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Yeah, me neither."
The silence between us is molten now. It hums. It throbs. It doesn't cool even after he backs out of my room.
The door doesn't click shut.
He leaves it open.
Like some part of him still wants to stay.
Ten minutes later, I text Camila.
Me [9:51 PM]: "Hey. You can stop looking into Alex."
Camila [9:52 PM]: "Oh."
Camila [9:52 PM]: "So y'all kissed or whatever."
Me [9:52 PM]: "NO"
Camila [9:53 PM]: "Liar."
Camila [9:53 PM]: "Anyway. Too late. Dani texted back."
My stomach twists like it's been wrung out. A weird kind of guilt sinks in before I even read what she says next.
Me [9:53 PM]: "Camila. Don't."
Camila [9:54 PM]: "I think you need to know."
Camila [9:54 PM]: "Alex had a boyfriend back in high school. Not just like… a hookup. A real relationship. His name was Jamie. They were lowkey but not secret."
I sit up in bed, heart suddenly too loud in my ears.
Camila [9:54 PM]: "But something happened. Alex's parents found out. There was this big blowout. I guess his dad didn't take it well. Dani said after that, Jamie left school halfway through senior year. No one really knew why."
The weight of it all hits me like an elevator dropping.
Alex. His quiet. His distance. That glint of pain behind his jokes.
It's not just me he was hesitating with.
It wasn't just fear of something new—it was a wound he's already carried.
Me [9:55 PM]: "Do you know if they still talk?"
Camila [9:55 PM]: "No clue. Dani didn't know. But apparently, it messed Alex up pretty bad. Family drama level bad."
I reread the messages like they're clues in a case I didn't ask to investigate. Like I'm trying to solve someone else's heartbreak from the outside in.
So now I know. He wasn't looking at me like that for the first time. He's done this before. Felt things for boys. Lost people over it.
And still kissed me anyway.
He kissed me knowing the risk. Knowing how it burned before. Knowing how it ended last time.
I get up, cross the room, and look at my door.
Still open.
Still cracked.
Still letting him in—even when he's not there.
I press my hand against the frame, like that'll answer any of the questions forming in my chest.
Do I like him? Do I want to like him? What if this is another disaster waiting to happen?
I don't have the answers. Not yet.
But I think maybe I want to kiss him back next time. Not out of confusion. Not out of panic.
Out of clarity.
Because if he's carrying something that heavy, I want to know how it feels to help hold it.
Even if it hurts. Even if I'm not sure where this leads.
Some things deserve to be held anyway.