Literature
more or less sixteen candles
If I could pinpoint the exact moment when my heart gave way to pressure and erupted, the empty space inside my ribs pushing angrily at my lungs, I would trace it back to that afternoon, sitting in the cafe with him, saying our goodbyes again. He was watching me intently as I sipped an overpriced frappucino, and I glued my eyes to the window, trying to look at the glass and not through it, and trying not to look at him looking at me.
(I'd missed him looking at me like that so much.)
I brushed my hair back and rubbed my eyes; did I look okay? "You look perfect," he said,