thoughtsonfire #1

I still remember the first time he held my hand. It was at night and we were the last two left. He did it without asking; before I could even process it, the fingers of his right hand found their way between the fingers of my left. They were so much stronger and tougher than mine. We sat there in comfortable silence for a bit, the sides of our thighs touching and the smell of a night’s worth of alcohol on his breath. I remember wondering if it meant anything.
It didn’t.