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He didn’t kiss me like a movie scene. Looking back, I realize he kissed me like a man who was starving. Not with technique or grace, but with a terrifying, honest hunger. I remember feeling his hands shaking in my arms, on my skin, grasping at me like he was afraid I might turn into smoke. There were tears in his eyes that he was trying so hard to hide, but the second our mouths met, I felt him break. It was like coming home after a long, cold trip, that moment you drop your bags and finally collapse. There was no gentleness, just a rough tenderness that said, 'I am finally here, and I am not letting go.' It wasn't about fireworks; it was about survival. He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth before the world could pull us apart again. I miss that desperation. I miss the way I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
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