Kisses Are Small

Your brother watched him hit you with a pillow.

You hit him back, and it was the first time your brother had seen you that happy.

When your brother left the room, your “friend” pulled you close and kissed you.
But kisses are small. And knowing exactly what you like before you even say it is nothing at all.

A song perhaps? A confession? A marathon was his first grand gesture. The first time you met in person, he ran miles from his house to yours just to say hello. In return, you stopped by the court to leave a water bottle and a note. The heat and the secrets and your dad’s disapproval didn’t faze you.

It was nothing at all. And you believed not telling your parents about him was the right call. Just give them a friend’s name and you’d be free to meet him at the park for two drinks and a kiss.

But a kiss is small. And holding hands is big. And dancing with you in a room full of people is a promise that outlasts the music.

If I asked you to dance with me, would you?

I don’t dance with girls.

I knew you’d say that.

But as soon as you stepped away, her hand reached for yours. High heels and small steps. Your Council President to her Prom Queen. She sucks at people; you suck at dancing.

And you suck at keeping your hands to yourself and watching your words and keeping her name out of your lips. You suck at promises and apologies and not living in your memories.

He kissed you.

And it was big enough for you to move the box from your bedroom to your dorm. A few more envelopes were still unopened when you texted him about how much you love letter compilations. Have you told him you hate flowers? Does he know you fear the rain?

Something happened, you tell her on a bus ride — but you never tell her what.

Because kisses are small, and she had compiled those letters for your eighteenth birthday without you saying anything. Kisses are small, and you walked her home in a thunderstorm. And she carried your bag for you. And you danced in the rain. And she got you to drink the one thing you hate. And she wore your clothes. And she wrote your paper. And she took you to an amusement park, and you took her out for pizza. And she wrote about you, and you illustrated her poems. And she looks at you like she’s ready to break his neck if he breaks your heart.

It's nothing. (Kisses are small.)