Hannah Bonam-Young

“A dove is a symbol of peace.” He reaches towards me, holding my cheek in his palm. “That’s what you are to me… peace.”

The last letter, by total chance, is my favourite. No poetic prose or details. He’s not trying to impress me, and he’s not trying to earn me. It’s only ten words on a full sheet of paper—not even signed. Fuck, I miss you. You’ve ruined me. Do it again.

What am I doing?
"I-I think we sh-should just be friends," I stutter out while my aching hands rub the front of his shoulders and neck, speaking to the contrary. My better judgment is saying this is a bad idea. But the rest of me screams that this bad idea would feel so, so good.
Warren tilts his head with a smirk. His eyes narrow in on my chest as it heaves upward, then toward my hands, which fist his T-shirt.
He licks his lips as he opens them, speaking in a hushed tone, "I said I didn't want to be your friend."

I'm hyperaware of his stare as I lick the last drop of wine off my top lip. Something within me screams to get some distance between us. I take both of our empty glasses to the sink and begin to washing up. There's room to breathe over here. Room from that look in his eyes. Like i'm edible.

It’s horribly cliché, but his smile is beaming—far brighter than the sun. I feel myself bloom with it, as if it’s my own personal version of photosynthesis.

Our souls were tied a long time ago, I think. We’re just finally admitting it to each other.

To know you is to love you