[private] like an echo in the chambers of my chest; charlie

[caledonia]

I have glass in my throat when I sing about what an almost love it could've been

Had she not told him her name?

She tries to remember the details of the first time they had met, but it’s blurry now—out of focus. All she can remember is the way her heart had fluttered in her chest at the strange boy she had met in her wanderings. How his voice had sounded so sweet and she had thought him so kind that he could only have been handsome. She had carried that meeting in her chest ever since, a secret just for her.

But all of this melts away, it pales in comparison, when he closes the distance—when he presses his lips to hers. She inhales sharply, her inexperience showing in the way that she stiffens even as everything in her wants to melt. She doesn’t know how to reciprocate, even though she wants to. She doesn’t know how to do anything but soak in the sensation, the feeling like honeysuckle and warm summer afternoons.

He steps away, apologizing, and she wonders if she had done something wrong—something to make him apologize. She feels that familiar burn of embarrassment and she sweeps her lashes down to hide her gaze for a moment, to give herself a moment to gather her thoughts. “Caledonia,” she answers, wondering why she hadn’t given it before—why she had been so distracted, so caught off guard by the first meeting.

“What are you when you feel like yourself?” she asks, finally dragging her gaze back up so that she can look at him fully, taking in the sight of him even though it feels a little like staring into the sun.

“I want to know,” she whispers, as though it is a secret.

She wonders, as she watches the stern lines of his face, the green of his eyes, the gentleness of his smile, if it is a secret—if it is the kind of thing that he allows others to see. If she would ever see it herself.

Caledonia

@[eucharist]