She takes my hand and places it hesitantly on her face. I pause for a moment before exploring her cheek. When I feel her eyes close, I bring my other hand up to hold her head.
I always loved holding her like this right before I kissed her, and judging by her sharp intake of breath, she remembers it too. I let one hand slowly trail up to her hair and run through it, testing its length.
Like she said, it’s a bit longer, and I wish more than anything I could see it. I want to see every little change she talked about. No matter how hard I try when I picture her, she’s still the same girl I remember all those years ago.
I bring my hand up to cup the back of her neck and allow my other hand to explore. When my thumb runs over her lips, I freeze. They’re as soft as I remember, and the spark is still there between us, stronger than before.
Though I want to kiss her badly, this is day one of months of recovery, and the last thing I want is to make things awkward. I need to recover, and no one can help me better than she can. It has to be her.
By now, we’re both breathing hard, but she pulls back a fraction, and I can sense her walls going back up. It’s like there’s a solid divider between us as she tenses and withdraws.
While I know we have a lot to work through, I'm not sure why she needs to build a wall so hard and fast between us. At the end of all this, I'd like us to be friends, which means I need her to open up.
We have a long way to go, and not only on my end.