It felt like an epiphany, like my body was responding to the process.
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We’ve never truly evolved out of our baby brains, object permanence—I love myself in the eyes of others
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i’d like to think that you have cried a thousand times in your heart
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It’s better not to know, I reasoned. It’s better to pretend nothing happened.
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My heart starts cramping in my throat, that sort of bleak gut feeling. Still I don’t want to ghost the guillotine.
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To be honest, I never thought about our relationship all that much. There was nothing to think about.
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I’m terrified that the ghost of “almost,” of “what if” will define me for a very long time.
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Sometimes he’d squeeze my lower back in just the right way, and it felt like intimacy. I swore it was intimacy.
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The line between platonic and sexual encounters is often quite thin; it depends upon how long you linger.
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