VOLUME I ‎ ‎ACT I ‎ ‎CHAPTER THREE ‎One Step Closer ‎(Part Three) ‎

VOLUME I

‎ACT I

‎CHAPTER THREE

‎One Step Closer

‎(Part Three)

I’d imagined our first kiss a hundred different ways.

Under fairy lights. In the rain. After a fight that led to a confession. I’d written every variation of that moment in my journal since I was fifteen.

But none of them felt as quiet, as full, or as real as that kiss.

He didn’t rush it. He didn’t hesitate. His hand slid gently to my cheek, and he leaned in like the moment had been waiting for us all along.

I melted.

For the first time in ten years of planning, guessing, scripting—I felt something I hadn’t expected.

Peace.

There were no fireworks. No racing thoughts. Just his breath, his lips, and the smell of cinnamon from the pie his mother had baked earlier.

When we pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did I.

Because if either of us spoke, it might break.

And I didn’t want to break it.

Not yet.

He walked me to my car, his fingers laced with mine like it had always been that way. Like we hadn’t just crossed a line that could change everything

“Drive safe,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“I will.”

He leaned in, and this time, kissed my forehead.

I drove away in silence.

And cried the whole ride home.

Not because I was sad.

But because, for once, I wasn’t chasing something.

It had found me.

He had found me.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

Saturday was quiet.

We didn’t text.

We didn’t call.

But I stared at my phone at least a hundred times, waiting for something. Some ripple. Some echo. Some confirmation that what happened wasn’t just some fluke born out of music and memory.

Nothing came.

Until Sunday night.

“I’ve been thinking about you all weekend.”

Just one line. No emojis. No punctuation. Just raw, terrifying honesty.

My fingers hovered over the screen, unsure what to say. My heart screamed a hundred replies, but I settled for:

“Me too.”

And somehow that was enough.

Monday morning, he was waiting outside my building when I came down for class.

He didn’t say anything.

He just held out a coffee and smiled.

We sat in his car and listened to music for twenty minutes before either of us spoke.

“So, um…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are we gonna talk about Friday?”

I turned to face him.

“I’ve been dying to.”

He smiled, soft. Nervous. Excited.

“I liked it. I liked kissing you.”

I could barely keep my voice steady.

“I liked it too.”

“I mean, it wasn’t… weird? With the whole, like… you being my little brother’s best friend?”

I shook my head slowly. “It didn’t feel weird to me. It felt… overdue.”

He laughed under his breath.

Yeah. Yeah, it did.”

We didn’t define anything. We didn’t need to. But he leaned in before I left and kissed me again, and that felt like definition enough.

The days that followed blurred into something close to bliss.

Secret dates. Stolen kisses. Movie nights with his brother that ended with long hugs goodbye in the driveway. I never told anyone. Not yet. He wanted to ease into it—“no reason to make things complicated too fast,” he said.

I agreed.

Mostly.

But a part of me had waited so long for this—so long to be his, to be seen, to finally be chosen—that hiding it stung.

Still, I played the game. I laughed at dinner. I kept our secret. I waited.

Until one night, I overheard his younger brother say something that froze the blood in my veins.

“Dude, I think she likes you. Like actually likes you.”

They were in the living room. I was in the hallway. Close enough to hear, far enough not to be noticed.

“She’s just my brother’s friend,” he replied casually. “We’re just hanging out.”

A pause.

“Yeah but… I don’t know, man. She lights up around you. You don’t see that?”

Another pause.

Then:

“Maybe. But… I’m not sure she’s really into me for me.”

I pressed my back to the wall and closed my eyes.

He wasn’t wrong.

Later that night, he texted me.

“Are we moving too fast?”

I stared at it for a long time before responding.

“Not if it’s real.”

“I want it to be.”

“Then let it be.”

I knew it couldn’t stay hidden forever. And if we didn’t tell the truth, the lie would grow. The longer we lived inside it, the more it would hurt when it all unraveled.

But I wasn’t ready yet.

Not to explain to his brother that I had befriended him out of obsession.

Not to explain to his mom that I had once collected photos of her son like a curator.

Not to look him in the eyes and admit that I had been watching him years before we ever “met.”

So I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I stayed quiet.

I smiled.

I loved him in silence.

But silence doesn’t last.

Not in love.

Not when truth scratches at the back of your throat every time he tells someone how he met you.

Not when guilt starts crawling under your skin, turning every laugh into a lie.

I stood in front of my mirror one evening, brushing my hair, when I caught my own eyes and couldn’t hold the stare.

Because the woman in the mirror looked scared.

She looked like someone who had finally gotten everything she ever wanted—

and was about to lose it.

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