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by Jennifer Hartmann

“Okay,” I told him in two broken-down syllables. “You’re right.” He smiled the saddest smile. “I don’t want to be right.” “I don’t want us to be wrong.” When he reached for me again, I let him. I let him cup my damp cheeks between his palms and press his lips to mine, our kiss infused with salt and pain. Our foreheads touched, our noses grazed, and I said softly, “Are you here to save me?” Another kiss landed on my hairline, and he lingered there, squeezing me tighter, exhaling ragged breaths against my skin. “You never needed saving, Halley. You were never lost.” “I was,” I cried. “I was lost when you found me, and I’ll be lost when you leave me.” “No.” He kissed my forehead, my tear-tipped lashes, my quivering upper lip. “You were searching for something you already had.” As his hand splayed across my chest—my heart—I collapsed into a heap of devastation against him, burying my face into the crook of his neck and wishing I would never have to leave the solace of his arms.