He kissed me like he was dying. Or like I was. And now? He won’t even look at me. I stare down at my hands. They’re still shaking. From the grief, from the boy’s story. From Kane. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know if he regrets it. But I do know this: I’ve never been kissed like that before. Like I mattered. Like I was something to be treasured. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Even if he already has.
