He kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him alive.
Fingers buried in my hair.
Breath heavy, hot, desperate against mine.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't sweet.
It was war.
And I let it consume me like it was peace.
But when it ended?
When he pulled back, lips swollen and eyes unreadable?
He left.
Without a word.
Without a promise.
Without me.
---
I stood there, alone on that rooftop, wind clawing at my skin like it wanted to remind me what cold felt like.
And maybe I needed that.
Because for a few minutes, I'd forgotten.
Forgotten the rules.
Forgotten who I was.
Forgotten that people like him never stay.
---
I told myself I wouldn't cry.
But tears came anyway.
Quiet ones.
Angry ones.
Not because he kissed me.
But because I let him.
Because he kissed me like I meant everything.
And left like I meant nothing.
---
The next day, I wore red.
Not the soft kind.
The kind that bled.
Lips stained. Nails sharp. Eyes lined like armor.
If I was going to fall apart, I was going to do it looking untouchable.
Because if he saw me that day—and God, a twisted part of me wanted him to—I needed him to feel it.
Needed him to wonder how I could burn so bright after he left ashes behind.
---
He didn't show up.
Didn't text.
Didn't look.
Didn't care.
At least, that's what I told myself.
But by the third day, the red faded.
The war paint turned to smudges.
And I was left sitting in my room, staring at my ceiling, wondering when a boy with broken smiles and sharp silences had become the center of my damn universe.
---
I got a message that night.
From a friend.
A party.
I wasn't in the mood.
But I went anyway.
Because distraction felt better than destruction.
And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to prove I still had control.
---
The music was too loud.
The lights too dim.
But the second I walked in, I felt it.
His presence.
Before I saw him.
And when I did?
He was across the room.
Hands in his pockets.
Talking to someone else.
Some girl.
Laughing.
Not like he laughed with me—but still laughing.
And I broke in places I didn't know could shatter.
---
I walked past him.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't pause.
But he caught my wrist.
"Hey," he said, like everything was normal. Like I hadn't been wrecked by his silence. "You look... dangerous."
I yanked my hand back.
"I am," I said, eyes locked to his. "Especially to liars."
He blinked, smile fading.
And for the first time, I saw it.
The flicker.
The fear.
Because he knew what he was doing.
And so did I.
I was never just a kiss.
I was the storm that followed.
---