I remembered his laugh, like a flock of crows taking off

It wasn't the sort of kiss I'd had with him before, hungry, wanting, desperate. It wasn't the sort of kiss I'd had with anyone before. This kiss was so soft that it was like a memory of a kiss, so careful on my lips that it was like someone running his fingers along them.

He trailed through hallways, ducking under arms no longer there, excusing himself as he pressed through conversations long since ended.

I had spent so much of life being afraid or living the memory of being afraid.