Touched by an Angel
Chapter 3 (sorry 4 the wait)
There were a few things I knew for certain:
Burned CDs could still count as romantic.
Not having my licenses — SUCKS.
And if I got caught staring at my reflection any longer, my mom would probably assume I was up to something.
I hadn’t been on many dates.
Okay—technically, any.
But tonight didn’t feel like just a date.
It felt like an appointment with fate.
The CD in my hand was proof.
I'd spent half of Wednesday night tweaking the tracklist: not too obvious, not too try-hard.
TheNovaProject: so um… crazy idea
TheNovaProject: i kinda forgot to ask earlier
puddlezofpink: lol oh no
puddlezofpink: what now?
puddlezofpink: "forgot" :P
TheNovaProject: what if
TheNovaProject: we did something wild
TheNovaProject: like
TheNovaProject: go out
TheNovaProject: together
TheNovaProject: on purpose
puddlezofpink: wait...
puddlezofpink: are you asking me on a date?
TheNovaProject: ...
TheNovaProject: yes?
puddlezofpink: :D <3 <3 <3
TheNovaProject: ...Sooooooo?
puddlezofpink: brb
puddlezofpink: i can't do it tomorrow night :(
TheNovaProject: Thursday?
puddlezofpink: oh yeah, thursday's perfect.
puddlezofpink: ;) <3
My grandma told me once that my grandpa figured out how to make her a mixtape.
Before mixtapes were even a thing.
She said he sat next to this giant silver radio for hours, waiting for songs to come on — fingers on the record button like his life depended on it.
She thought he was lying until she heard her name whispered between tracks.
He recorded his voice between the songs.
Said he wanted to make sure she didn’t skip straight to the good parts.
My granddaddy was a PLAYER, So the idea stuck.
That a mix could say everything you didn’t know how to..
I made a mix of quiet confessions and soul-soaked background music.
Dwele, Raheem DeVaughn, The Fray.
A little Ne-Yo for texture.
I called it “just...
listen.”
Burned it.
Labeled it.
Broke that one in half after deciding my handwriting looked too eager the first time.
Burned it again.
Re-labeled it.
Drew hearts, little cupids, some bow and arrows.
What the hell am I...?
Broke that one too.
Burned it one last time.
Re-Re-labeled it.
Drew a simple cassette tape and wrote the songs out.
Much better.
I'd wanted to bring her flowers; lilacs.
But we were both catching the bus.
I can't really expect her to carry a bouquet of grocery store flowers into a movie theater?
Nah.
The mixtape can say the same thing—these made me think of you.
That—and the ability to not say something completely awkward the moment she smiled at me.
It had only been a week since we'd exchanged screen names,
but between bus rides and late-night IMs,
I felt something starting to build.
Our convos were short—bus rides, message windows, the occasional smile as we sat in silence—but they stuck with me.
And now, I was going on a date with her.
With Angel.
Tonight was our first official date.
I say “official” like I didn’t plan it all day at school Tuesday.
And then...
possibly forget to ask her until we got home and IM’d that night.
A girl so radiant she made old bus seats feel holy.
So angelic that—when he found out that was actually her name—he’d nearly laughed out loud.
Of course her name was Angel.
A girl who made him forget how much he hated the confines of school.
Who made him not mind going home because he didn't feel as lonely anymore.
She said yes—to him.
He adjusted his hoodie, tucked the CD back in his pocket, and looked out the window.
He grabbed his keys off the counter, tiptoed past the room where his mom was sleeping, and slipped out the front door.
She hadn’t asked where he was going—and maybe that was the most freeing part.
The sun was starting to dip—gold light bleeding into the cracks of the city.
A Thursday in Baltimore,
but it felt like something more.
I could’ve waited at the subway.
That was the plan.
But every afternoon, I'm the one off the bus first—leaving her to ride those last few stops alone.
It probably wasn’t a big deal.
She never made it one.
But I noticed.
It didn’t feel right for tonight.
Not when I had the chance to flip it.
So instead, I left early, probably too early, and caught the bus headed toward her stop.
I rode quietly, rehearsing what I could say.
How to hand her the mixtape and not make it weird.
At her stop, I got off, adjusted my hoodie, and looked around like I belonged there, Baltimore and all.
The bench was old, maybe even older than the sign next to it.
"Baltimore, the city that reads" still was able to be read off of it.
I sat down, then stood up.
Checked my breath.
Pulled the mixtape from his pocket just to make sure it was still there.
It was.
Fifteen minutes early.
Which, in my head, was perfectly on time.
I didn’t want to look overeager—but I also didn’t want to miss even a second of seeing her walk up.
I would tell her I just got there if she asked.
Smooth.
I paced a little, checked my breath on the cd case then tucked the CD deeper into my jacket pocket like it mattered.
And then she appeared.
Braids catching the last of the light, her skin and the golden hour sun felt like an unfair combo.
Mike Vick and Randy Moss, LeBron and T-Mac.
2 really good baseball players.
She had on this jean jacket, open and effortless, and underneath it;
A faded concert tee, black, soft-looking, a little faded around the edges but the image still popped.
Three women stood side by side, all high-waisted jeans and serious faces, like they knew exactly what kind of damage they were capable of.
They wore corset tops — black, strapless, full 90s confidence.
Across the bottom of the photo, their name was printed in big block letters: J A D E — each letter a different color.
Underneath it, in smaller text: “Jade to the Max.”
I didn’t recognize them.
But the way Angel wore that shirt?
Like it wasn’t just vintage, it was sacred.
Like her mom passed it down with instructions.
She had it knotted at her waist, a bit of stomach showing.
She probably did that after she left the house.
The way she wore it, you’d think she was one of the artists.
“Hey,” I said, trying not to smile too fast.
She gave me that smile back — the one that made me forget how anything worked.
“Who's Jade?” I asked, pointing at her shirt, mostly to keep my eyes somewhere safe.
She looked down, like she’d forgotten what she was wearing.
“You don’t know Jade?”
I blinked.
“Should I?”
“Oh my God,” she said, and gently pushed my arm like she was offended.
“This is my mom's from some tour.
1993, I think.”
Then, without warning, she sang:
Don’t walk away, boy…
My love won’t hurt you…
“Wait—yo.
I do know that song!”
She smirked.
“Everybody knows that song.”
“Okay, but everyone also knows the Whisper Song, and you still argue it didn’t have cultural impact.”
She cracked up.
“Don’t start.”
The bus pulled up, brakes hissing like it was trying not to interrupt.
We got on without saying much.
It was mostly empty — maybe five people were already riding.
One guy clearly just got off a fast food shift; the smell of fries stuck to his clothes and followed us down the aisle.
An older couple — well, not old-old, maybe mid-40s — sat together but didn’t look thrilled about it.
The others just blurred into the usual faces.
Tired.
Background.
We slid toward the back.
I reached into my jacket and took the CD out as we sat.
No awkward buildup.
I just handed it to her.
“Hey,” I said.
“This is for you.”
She tilted her head.
“What is this?”
But the smile on her face said she already loved it.
“Just some songs I think you’d like.”
She turned it over, reading the front.
“Just… listen?”
Then, smirking: “What is a Radiohead?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t even really know.”
She laughed.
“So you just put random people on here?”
“No.
I mean… I know the song.
I just don’t know their deal.
They’re like...
sad white guys with guitars.
But it’s really good.”
She tilted her head like she wasn’t convinced.
“So like...
emo?”
“Not emo.
Like...
moody.
Grown-up sadness.
But it sounds pretty.”
“Ohhh,” she said, nodding slowly.
“So like Maxwell if he hated his dad.”
I laughed harder than I meant to.
“Exactly that.”
She looked down at the CD again, reading the rest of the tracklist.
“Raheem DeVaughn?
Dwele?
The Fray?”
“You don’t know any of them?” I asked.
She shook her head slowly.
“Nope.
But I’m about to.”
I tried to play it cool.
“They’re just songs that remind me of...
stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Of like...
or like...
you know — you.”
She didn’t say anything for a second.
Just held the CD in her lap, fingers brushing over the case like it meant something.
And maybe it did.
Outside, the city moved past like it wasn’t invited to this part of the night.
Streetlights coming on one by one.
“I think this is the quietest I’ve ever seen the route,” she said, now glancing out the window.
I looked out too, instead of at her “Yeah.
It’s like Baltimore’s letting us have a secret.”
Two minutes of silence.
Not awkward.
Just… good.
Then some dude got on — long white tee down to his knees, loud BAPE hoodie and matching kicks.
Probably fake.
He was playing music, obnoxiously loud from his phone.
Angel leaned in close.
“You know him?”
“Twice removed.”
She covered her face, laughing, and bumped my arm.
Just like that, we were back in it.
We had the same chemistry in person that we have on IM.
I never knew what she would say, and I loved it.
She made me keep up.
I answered each quip with one of my own.
And now, without her family crossing her back watching her as she typed on IM, she seemed more comfortable.
TheNovaProject: You’re not super talky today :/
puddlezofpink: I know srry.
puddlezofpink: my mom’s best friend is over with her son
puddlezofpink: they're basically all staring at me.
TheNovaProject: sounds awful
puddlezofpink: well..
puddlezofpink: when the 1 computer in the house is in the living room..
puddlezofpink: this is what happens
TheNovaProject: I could give you my old one?
TheNovaProject: it's not great butt better than nothing
TheNovaProject: *but
puddlezofpink: Gabriel says hi
puddlezofpink: he’s my mom’s friend’s son.
puddlezofpink: she’s basically my aunt.
TheNovaProject: waves
puddlezofpink: my mom would never let me take a computer in my room.
puddlezofpink: gotta be in the monitoring zone.
I smiled, remembering that conversation — and how she typed that last line like it was a joke, even though we both knew it wasn’t.
That was the thing with her.
She always made restriction feel like freedom.
And now here she was, sitting next to me.
No crowded living room.
No mom’s best friend watching sitcom reruns over her shoulder.
No Gabriel hovering nearby, pretending not to read the chat—trying, and failing, to piece together who “The Nova Project” even was, because she still hadn’t told her mom (or him) my real name.
Just us.
The bus jerked to a stop, and the driver mumbled something we couldn’t hear.
We stood up without a word.
The transfer to the subway was a short walk — long enough for the silence between us to feel full, not empty.
When we got underground, the air changed.
Heavy, humid, and somehow quieter, like the walls were made to hold secrets.
She stood beside me near the platform edge, her fingers still curled around the CD like it mattered more now.
“You want me to hold it?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow.
“You tryna borrow it already?”
I smiled.
“Just being nice.”
“I'm good,” she said, and held it tighter.
“This is mine now.”
She said it like a joke, but the way she looked at it?
Like it already meant more than I thought it would.
It felt like stepping into something we’d been building for weeks — but now we were breathing the same air.
No screens.
No typing.
No brb.
All I could think now, looking into those brown eyes—
I have to kiss her.
I’d only kissed one girl before.
Joy.
Back in 9th grade.
Eh.
But Angel… and those beautiful, full, gloss-covered lips—
She was looking at me now, and because what the hell else could I have done...
My eyes dropped.
And then dashed away.
She smirked.
Said nothing.
Did she see that?
She didn’t say anything.
Didn’t even blink weird.
But something in her smile felt different now.
The travel arrived, scatters of people got off, even less got on.
We picked a cart that was mostly empty.
I sat next to her, She had the cd out again, scanning.
She squinted at one of the titles.
“Superstar… Usher?”
“You don’t know Usher?
Confessions?”
“No, I do know him,” she said through an eye roll.
“I just never heard anything but the radio stuff.”
I scratched the back of my neck.
“It’s not what you'd think -- he’s not the star.
She is.
He’s just a fan.”
She tilted her head.
“Like, he’s the one watching her.
She walks in, and cameras flash, people scream.
Men throw underwear..”
Angel blinked.
A little slower now.
I looked at the CD in her hands.
I felt something slightly heavy coming up “That’s what my granddad said love should feel like, I think.
Like you’d put their face on posters.
Hang ‘em on your wall just so you could see them when they were away.”
She didn’t say anything for a second.
Just looked at me.
And for once, I didn’t try to look away.
She looked at my eyes..
I felt hopeless --penny with a hole in it.
She looked down towards my mouth.
Probably hoping for me to say something else.
Maybe I'm smoother than I thought.
She looked back at my eyes.
Then, softly:
“Is that how you see me?”
I tried to laugh it off, but my voice cracked.
“I mean… It's track three.”
She smiled.
Quiet, but there.
And then she tapped the case again.
“Okay, So… this ones not on this CD”
She paused, a little shy but curious.
“Have you heard Prototype?”
"By outkast?
— Well Andre 3000?
"You know it?” She grinned.
“Do I know it?” I laughed.
“I was obsessed.
I watched the video like twenty times.
That wah-wah guitar makes it feel like you’re slow dancing in a dream… on Saturn.
It sounds like it shouldn't work— but It does.”
“Right?
It’s weird.
But like… weird in a way that feels honest.
It's just… so sweet.
It’s like he’s scared to say it, but he can’t help it.
‘I hope that you’re the one’ — it’s vulnerable, but still cool.
I like that balance.”
“I didn’t even think of it like that,” I said, nodding.
“Yeah.
You’re right.
That’s what makes it hit.”
She smiled a little, watching me watch her.
She looked down for a second, then back at me.
“I used to imagine someone thinking of me like that.
Like I wasn’t just a girl… I was the girl.”
I paused.
Swallowed something in my throat.
“Well… track three, remember?”
She bit her lip, eyes flicking to mine.
I didn’t know what it meant.
Just that it made my chest feel like static.
“I always liked She Lives in My Lap, I think it's the next song.
But I never really knew if it was happy or sad.” I said trying to talk the static out of my chest.
“Yes, it's next.
That one’s… complicated.”
“Right?
It’s like… she’s everywhere.
She’s close.
But not really his.
And he’s kinda okay with that?
Or not okay.
I don’t know.”
“I think it’s about wanting someone who doesn’t stay.
And settling for the moments they give you.”
I looked at her.
She didn’t mean it as a hint.
But for a second, I wondered if that's what she'll become to me.
Or maybe that’s just how I saw love.
Not something you held — just something that stayed near, if it stays at all.
Her eyes widened a bit and she smiled as if she remembered something funny.
"What do you think of Where are my panties leading into: Prototype, She lives in my lap, THEN Hey Ya!
AND Roses?"
"Ice cold" I said with a smile hoping she got the reference.
"Oh my god, yes!
Ice cold!"
“Yo, one day I’m gonna just yell out ICE COLD!!
in public.
Like the middle of the inner harbor.”
"You won't."
"Bet."
I take a quiet moment.
Train’s a little emptier.
I lean forward, closer to her and whisper:
“…ice cold.”
“Stop.”
“ICE—” (cutting his volume mid-sentence, glancing at her)
She starts laughing, covering her face.
“You’re so dumb.”
“I told you.
You gotta respect the art.”
The train screeched into the station, jerking us out of whatever moment that almost was.
Angel stood up first, brushing a twist behind her ear.
I followed, trying to play it cool, like my legs weren’t jelly.
We stepped out into the night, a soft breeze curling around us.
The station lights flickered overhead — the cheap, humming kind that makes even normal things feel cinematic.
We walked side by side, her hand swinging close to mine, not touching but close enough that I kept wondering if I should.
Outside the theater, the big backlit poster made the movie look more serious than I remembered.
But Angel didn’t seem nervous.
She just smiled and said, “I’ll grab the popcorn.
You get the seats?”
I nodded, grateful to be assigned something — anything — that let me breathe for a second.
Inside, I picked seats near the middle.
Not too close, not too far back.
Enough space for her to cross her legs sideways if she wanted, or tuck her knees up like I’d seen her do on the bus sometimes.
She came back with popcorn and a drink, plopped into the seat next to me with a little bounce.
“Extra butter.
You’re welcome.”
I grinned.
“Are you trying to win me over?”
“Nah,” she whispered, “I already won.”
The previews started.
She leaned closer during one of them, barely audible.
“This one looks dumb.”
“It does,” I said, even though I kind of wanted to see it.
Then the lights dimmed — and just like that, we were swallowed by the screen.
The movie started slow — quiet narration, gray buildings, Will Ferrell brushing his teeth to a stopwatch.
But Angel was into it.
Like, really into it.
She’d lean forward slightly when something felt off.
Smile small when a joke landed.
Her hand hovered near the popcorn, barely moving, like she didn’t want to break the spell on screen.
And me?
I watched her.
I was still watching the movie — following the plot, nodding at the smart parts, laughing when she laughed.
But kind of how I did in school most of my attention was tracking her reactions like a plotline of their own.
The way she smirked during the bakery scenes.
How her lips curled when the guitar came out.
The way her eyebrows tugged together when Harold read her the paper.
I didn’t know movies could light someone up like that.
She wasn’t loud.
She wasn’t trying to show she was smart or deep.
But something about the way she absorbed the story — like it meant something — made the whole theater feel quieter.
It felt like everyone else around us blurred into background noise.
NPCs, if I’m being honest.
And she?
She was my main character.
My superstar.
Somewhere around the scene with the cookies — just as Harold was deciding to finally live his life — the guy in front of us put his arm around his girl.
It wasn’t slick.
No dramatic stretch or yawn.
Just a quiet move, like they’d done it a hundred times before.
I glanced at my own arm.
Still glued to my side- it looked back at me..
daring me almost.
Angel shifted slightly, adjusting her jacket.
Her hair brushed my shoulder for half a second and I felt my pulse in my ears.
Okay, Marcel.
Be cool.
You got this.
ICE COLD.
I did the oldest trick in the book — slow stretch, fake yawn.
Right as my arm started to rise, she glanced over.
Our eyes met mid-yawn.
I froze, caught in the dumbest pose imaginable — half-stretch, mouth open, the worst improv theater of all time.
She smiled.
Not a mocking one, something quieter.
Like she saw right through me and liked me anyway.
Then, softly, just loud enough for me to hear:
“Cute.”
I let my arm fall behind her, careful, casual.
She didn’t move.
And then — like it had always belonged there — she leaned into me.
Her head found my shoulder.
My hand grazed her upper arm.
She exhaled.
Not a sigh — just a breath.
Like she was settling in.
And I?
I forgot the rest of the movie.
I don’t remember the credits, or how long we stayed in our seats after the lights came up.
I don't even remember getting on or off the train.
I just know I was floating.
She was still laughing at a line from the movie.
I don’t even think it was meant to be funny.
“That narrator's voice,” she said.
“Something about it felt so… I don’t know.
Safe?”
I nodded, but I was only half there.
Watching her eyes catch reflections from the bus window.
“Like someone watching you live.
Not judging.
Just… there.”
"That’s what got me too.”
She looked over.
“The cookies scene?”
"Yeah"
The bus came to a halt at her stop.
We stepped off the bus, still a few blocks from her place.
I was still floating.
My feet barely made contact with the pavement, like I was being carried by some invisible thread from the movie back into real life — or whatever this was becoming.
She caught my arm before I drifted too far ahead.
Slipped hers through mine, locking it like a ribbon.
“Slow down, float boy.”
I laughed, a little breathless, and adjusted my pace.
She didn’t let go.
“So..
You liked it?” she asked.
“I did,” I said.
“I think I liked it more than I was supposed to.”
She tilted her head.
“It just hit me weird.
Like… Here's this guy living his routine, and then someone tells him his life has meaning — because someone’s watching.
Writing it.
And suddenly he starts paying attention to everything.
Trying to be better.”
She looked up at me, that quiet smile returning.
“You think someone’s writing your story?”
“Not writing it, exactly,” I shrugged.
“But it made me feel like maybe everything matters.
Even the small parts.
Even this.”
I almost told her: You matter to me.
She didn’t say anything right away.
Just held on tighter.
Her cheek brushed my shoulder as we walked.
And for a second, I forgot everything that wasn’t this sidewalk, this night, her breath rising with mine.
They slowed as they neared her block.
Porch lights flickered like the end credits of some quiet film.
She stopped walking.
“Wait…”
I turned, thinking I missed something.
“I think my dad’s home.
He sits out sometimes, when he's with my great-grandma.
Just to get a break.”
“Oh.” My voice came out small.
“Yeah—no, yeah.
That’s cool.”
Neither of us moved.
I shifted my weight.
“So, I guess..”
She didn’t let go of my arm.
I looked down at her hand, still looped through mine.
Looked back up.
Her eyes were soft, but serious.
There was so much I wanted to say, but I didn’t trust my mouth.
So I just looked at her lips.
For a second.
She noticed.
And she didn’t look away this time.
Instead, she stepped forward — slow, deliberate — until we were just a breath apart.
Her hand came up.
Not to pull me in, just to be there.
Not a command..
An invitation
And I remembered the rule from Hitch — go 90 and wait.
So I did.
She came in the last 10.
And just like that… we kissed.
Not a long kiss.
Not a dramatic one.
Just enough.
Like hearing the tick, tick, tick of an oven burner in the dark —
and then, fire.
Brief.
Bright.
Undeniable.
When we pulled back, I didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.
Somehow that made it feel more real.
She turned, walking up the steps.
I watched until the door opened.
Then I turned around, walking back to the bus stop with a smile that felt too wide for my face.
Okay..
this isn't my first kiss, that was Joy Whitaker..
But this felt..
Different.
So much different.
My skin was on fire, but cool at the same time.
My lips still carried some of her gloss, i would have dared to wipe it off.
I let my instincts carry me the rest of the way to the bus stop.
What a night.
Hey!" I turned to see the girl who struck the spark and lit the burner running towards me, not very gracefully, I’ll add.
She was half-jogging toward me, sandals smacking the sidewalk, one hand holding her hoodie closed, the other waving a piece of paper like it owed her money.
“You forgot something,” she said, breath catching, tone sharp but not angry.
I blinked.
“Huh?”
She held out the note.
I took it and opened it.
It read:
Was hoping you’d be back earlier — all good.
Watch Grandma for me.
Be back soon-ish.
Love you, Dad.
Just like that.
Not a warning.
I looked up.
“He thought you’d be—?”
“—Hanging out with a friend,” she said, already walking past me.
“He meant girl.
He didn’t ask.
And I didn’t correct him.”
She didn’t seem mad, exactly.
Just off balance.
Not ready to admit how much it bothered her.
I started to follow, still clutching the note.
“Wait—so he just left your great-grandma?”
“She’s fine.
Probably watching Touched by an Angel.
He does this sometimes when she’s with me,” Angel said with a shrug.
“My mom’s out of town with her best friend.
Tuesdays and Thursdays are supposed to be my family days for her…”
She slowed when I caught up.
“But somehow, it’s always me.”
A pause.
“Which means… we have the house.”
She said it simply, like it was logistical — like she was just explaining a schedule.
But her eyes held on me a second too long.
And when she turned and started walking again, her pace was quicker — not rushed, just… intentional.
And I?
I understood what it meant.
And also didn’t.
I felt my brain trying to catch up to my heartbeat.
I told myself to stay calm, to not assume anything.
But the part of me that was still glowing from the kiss?
The one walking beside a girl who looked like that, in that hoodie, biting her lip like she was holding back a secret?
That part… wasn’t calm at all.
We walked the rest of the way without talking.
But everything felt louder.
Her hand brushing mine.
The porch light ahead.
The way the air shifted when she unlocked the door and stepped inside first.
From the living room, the soft, familiar voice of Touched by an Angel was playing.
Her great-grandma was asleep, bathed in TV light, and a blanket tucked around her.
Just as Angel predicted.
She motioned for me to stay near the door.
Then she went in, checked on her gently — whispered something I couldn’t hear.
Her great-grandma stirred, murmured a name — maybe Angel’s, maybe her dad’s — then drifted back to sleep.
Angel turned back to me.
The house was warm.
Quiet.
She didn’t say anything.
She just reached for my hand… and led me upstairs.
Her room was pink.
Not the loud kind — but soft, lived-in.
Blush comforter.
A rose-colored lamp.
Light pink curtains barely catching the breeze from a cracked window.
Like the inside of a seashell.
The walls were crowded with memory:
Posters layered like a mixtape — Alicia Keys, Lauryn Hill, an old Girlfriends cut-out peeling at the corner.
A corkboard swarmed with ticket stubs, paper flowers, sticky notes in faded pen.
And Polaroids.
So many Polaroids.
Some clipped to string lights.
Others tucked around the mirror.
A few taped directly to the wall.
Angel through the years — birthday crowns, lip gloss smiles, school hallway poses, friend-group collages.
I was still buzzing.
But one photo stopped me mid-buzz.
She was laughing.
Not a little smile — not even a big one.
A full, head-thrown-back, eyes-half-closed laugh.
She looked like joy had caught her off guard and cracked her wide open.
Her hand was mid-motion, like she’d just swatted at whoever made the joke.
I stared.
Angel stepped beside me, folding her arms.
“That’s from like… two weeks ago.”
She smiled, a little embarrassed.
“My cousin said something dumb and I completely lost it.”
“I’ve never seen you like that.”
She glanced at the photo, then at me.
“That’s why I keep it.
I always forget what I look like when I’m really happy.”
I didn’t say anything.
I just looked at her.
She peeled the photo off the wall and gently pressed it into my hand.
“You can have it.”
“What?
No, I—”
“It’s okay,” she said.
“You looked at it like it was something else.”
I nodded, slowly, putting it into my hoodie like it was a secret.
Then she crossed the room and sat on the bed, quilt bunched beneath her knees, and patted the spot beside her.
As I moved toward her, she reached for her radio player, and pressed play.
Music floated into the room through her little speakers.
Alicia Keys.
You Don’t Know My Name.
That piano loop?
It was the softest kind of time machine.
By the time I sat down beside her, shoulders barely touching, the first verse had already begun.
I turned to say something.
Anything.
But all that came out was a whisper:
“Hi.”
She laughed — low and warm.
“Hi,” she whispered back.
And the pink room held its breath with us, waiting for what came next.
She looked directly at me.
Like she saw me.
“You’re really cute when you’re nervous.”
“What makes you think I’m nervous?” I asked, trying to do a quick mental check of my internal systems.
Internal check failed.
She smiled before responding.
“You don’t realize your hand is on my leg.”
She was right — I’d placed it there when she turned to me.
She grabbed it gently before I could remove it.
Another invitation.
Then — just enough of a smirk to be dangerous — she said,
“You know I caught you looking at my lips on the train, right?”
My heart did something I can’t explain.
Somewhere between panic and awe.
I smiled, but didn’t answer.
I didn’t have to.
She leaned in slightly, her voice softer now.
“I knew you wanted to kiss me.”
I swallowed hard.
“I wanted to get it right.”
She tilted her head, amused.
“And?”
“Still want to.”
There was no big signal.
No music swell.
Just her eyes meeting mine, and something passing between us — quiet, electric, inevitable.
She moved first.
But only slightly.
And that’s when I moved, too.
Not fast.
Not bold.
Just enough.
My hand found her cheek.
She touched my wrist.
And together, we closed the last inch.
It wasn’t hungry.
Or practiced.
It was careful.
Curious.
Like we were both learning what it meant to kiss someone and mean it.
I felt her exhale through her nose, soft and slow, as our lips found rhythm.
She leaned into me, and I gently guided her back until we settled into the moment — like it had always been waiting for us.
And just as we did — just as we breathed into that perfect, impossible stillness —
“And when we had our first kiss…”
“…it happened on a Thursday.”
She smiled against my mouth when she heard the lyrics.
I might’ve smiled, too.
I don’t know.
I just remember thinking:
Of course it’s Thursday.
When we finally pulled apart, neither of us said a word.
We didn’t have to.
The pink room had its answer.
And I had mine.
We stayed like that for a while.
Still.
Breathing.
Close.
My heart hadn’t slowed.
If anything, it was louder now — but not in a panic way.
More like… background music.
Scoring a scene I’d be replaying forever.
She lay back first.
Eyes on the ceiling.
Quiet.
I followed, careful not to crowd her.
But she didn’t seem to mind.
She turned her head just enough for our arms to touch.
We didn’t say anything right away.
We just breathed the same air.
My arm around her.
Her hand on my chest.
Somewhere between being held and being home.
She drew soft circles with her fingers across my shirt, like she was sketching something only she could see.
Then, softly — so soft I almost didn’t catch it — she asked:
“Do you think your mom’ll like me?”
It wasn’t playful.
It wasn’t even really a question.
It was a glimpse.
Of the part of her that already lived ten years from now — holidays, matching pajamas, maybe even baby names no one was saying out loud yet.
The kind of hope that shows up uninvited, but never leaves empty-handed.
I didn’t answer right away.
Not because I didn’t know.
But because in that moment… I wasn’t in my house.
I was in this one.
In her room.
With her.
The softest bed I’d ever felt.
The sweetest air I’d ever breathed.
Pink walls.
Warm skin.
And the quiet knowledge that she wanted to be known by every part of my world.
“She’ll love you,” I said.
Angel smiled — soft, a little sad.
Like maybe she already knew.
Or maybe she’d just needed to hear it.
She kissed me again.
Quick.
But full.
The kind of kiss that could’ve led to another.
And another.
But then—
A car door outside.
SLAM.
Angel pulled back, eyes flicking toward the window.
She slipped out of bed and crossed the room.
Peeked through the curtain.
Then turned back to me, breath low:
“Not him,” she said.
“Still safe.”
“You should go before he comes back,” she whispered.
I sat up slowly, trying not to disturb the world we’d just made.
She found her hoodie on the floor, pulled it over her head, then walked over and stood between my knees.
One more kiss — slower this time.
A little longer.
A little harder to let go of.
And then, gently, like she hated herself for it:
“Come on.
I’ll walk you down.”
I nodded slowly, not ready.
But understanding.
“Yeah.”
I left her room in a dream.
Down the steps.
Past great-grandma still asleep, still glowing in the blue light of Touched by an Angel.
The front door barely made a sound.
I turned to see her with a warm smile and gave me a little wave.
It felt like in the movies as the husband leaves his wife to go to work.
The night air felt cooler than before.
Or maybe I just noticed it more.
The walk to the bus stop wasn’t far, but it felt longer now.
Not because I was tired.
Because I didn’t want it to end.
My hands were deep in my hoodie pocket.
I felt the photo — the one she gave me.
Still there.
Still real.
I pressed my fingers around it like a secret.
I should’ve been thinking about her lips.
Or her laugh.
Or her breath against mine.
But what I kept coming back to?
Joy Whitaker never made me feel like this.
I don’t even remember that kiss — not really.
This?
I didn’t know what it was yet.
Love was too big.
Right?
But it was something.
And I wasn’t letting go of it.
I got home around midnight.
An hour after my curfew.
I was afraid until I turned the corner and saw all the lights were off.
Mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway.
Inside, the TV was still on — some rerun, volume low.
I didn’t bother turning it off.
Just kicked off my shoes and dropped onto the couch.
Still floating.
Still holding that photo.
I stared at the ceiling.
At nothing.
At everything.
And for the first time in a long time...
I didn’t feel lonely.puddlezofpink: u made it home safe?
TheNovaProject: yeah. 12:03
TheNovaProject: i still smell like you.
puddlezofpink: ur hoodie smells like me now too
TheNovaProject: it’s never getting washed.
puddlezofpink: gross
puddlezofpink: cute
puddlezofpink: but gross.
TheNovaProject: i mean it
TheNovaProject: it’s mine now. forever.
puddlezofpink: =)
puddlezofpink: ur kinda cute when ur sweet
TheNovaProject: don’t let it get around.
puddlezofpink: too late
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