A different fish entirely
Her lips press onto your cheek--a second, a second more, just a few beats longer than you expected, and then they're gone. She smiles, in that way that she does, and the slow simmering pot boils up again. The sunlight plays over her ruffled hair, and for a moment you just want to gather her against you and feel her breathing.
She gives you another hug, just a quick one with her head on your shoulder and her hand lingering on your waist for a split second after you break apart, and you wonder all the way to the car if she even knows she's doing it. She gives you those little glances through the crowd, taps her fingers against your chest when she's talking, tugs on your hair when she comes up behind you. She never seems to notice the way you look at her, and you can hear her laughing even at the thought.
But there's something: one day she comes to you in tears, clinging to your coat and burying her face. She doesn't say anything, but you wrap an arm around her back and let her sob without interference. Later nothing is said, besides inquiries by other friends, but now every day when she hugs you goodbye, you can feel her holding something inside. There is always a whisper on her lips that, every time, she nearly says. Something keeps it in; you know that she will regret letting it fly, so you do not ask. You never ask.
She gives you another hug, just a quick one with her head on your shoulder and her hand lingering on your waist for a split second after you break apart, and you wonder all the way to the car if she even knows she's doing it. She gives you those little glances through the crowd, taps her fingers against your chest when she's talking, tugs on your hair when she comes up behind you. She never seems to notice the way you look at her, and you can hear her laughing even at the thought.
But there's something: one day she comes to you in tears, clinging to your coat and burying her face. She doesn't say anything, but you wrap an arm around her back and let her sob without interference. Later nothing is said, besides inquiries by other friends, but now every day when she hugs you goodbye, you can feel her holding something inside. There is always a whisper on her lips that, every time, she nearly says. Something keeps it in; you know that she will regret letting it fly, so you do not ask. You never ask.