Two years ago, before we parted ways, I remember kissing her inside that dimly lit bar. It was the third anniversary of Lucas’s death, a day already heavy with sorrow. That night, I pulled her close, kissed her, and when the world outside ceased to matter, we ended up in bed—holding onto each other as if we could shut out all the pain. We made love, and in her eyes, that moment became our first kiss, our first night of intimacy. She believed it was the beginning of everything between us. But it wasn’t. She thought it was also the first time I allowed myself to be vulnerable, the first time I confessed what I truly felt. But that was only her presumption. The truth was far more complicated. Because years ago, long before that night—back when we were still slowly finding our way toward each other—I had already claimed her, she had been mine from the very start. But she wasn’t in a state to remember it, and I never had the courage to tell her. I let her believe her version of the story,
Last Updated : 2022-10-24 Read more