Before We Broke

His Angel

I woke up still wearing his hoodie.

The sleeves were too long and smelled like old cologne and dryer sheets, and when I rolled over, the cuff brushed my cheek. I closed my eyes again, pretending it was his hand. Pretending he was still here, holding me like he had the night before — even if he never really did. Just his mouth, his fingers in my hair, his breath tangled in mine. That was enough to haunt my dreams.

My lips felt different. Tender, maybe even a little sore. I smiled to myself, remembering the way his tongue had moved with mine — like he’d been waiting for that moment longer than even I had.

Then my phone buzzed.

I fumbled under the blanket for it, heart kicking up.

Anthony:

Morning, angel.

I’ve been thinking about you since I opened my eyes.

Your lips. Your breath. That sound you made when I kissed you.

I want it again.

All of it.

But mostly, I just want you.

Angel.

The word hit me harder than I expected. Like a secret key turning in my chest. Nobody had ever called me that before. Not like it meant something. Not like I meant something.

With him, even the smallest words felt like they carried weight.

I lay there a moment, staring at the screen, letting the words sink into my skin.

Then I typed back.

Lila:

You make me feel like one.

Morning, trouble.

Can’t stop thinking about you either.

My lips still remember you.

The second I sent it, I felt warm all over again. As if even admitting that much was too much — and not enough.

Anthony:

Mine do too.

They’re jealous of your pillow.

I laughed, covering my mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. I was smiling so hard it hurt. I curled up tighter into my blanket, hugging my knees to my chest. My stomach fluttered and flipped and refused to calm down.

I wanted to see him again already. I wanted to feel his hands in my hair again. I wanted more — and that want was still so new, so unfamiliar, it almost scared me.

The rest of the morning passed in slow motion. I didn’t rush to get ready, didn’t change out of the oversized shirt I slept in. I poured cereal, forgot to eat it. Just kept rereading the message.

Morning, angel.

I scrolled back up and reread the first one. Then again.

It wasn’t just the kiss that had left a mark on me. It was him. The way he looked at me. The way his voice got soft when he was being serious. The way he didn’t just want to kiss me — he wanted to know me. See me. Say my name and mean it.

I padded back to my room, shut the door, and sat cross-legged on the bed. My fingers itched for something familiar — something grounding. So I pulled my diary out from under my mattress.

It was old and soft, the corners dog-eared and pages ink-smudged from all the times I’d poured my heart into it. The binding creaked as I opened to a fresh page.

And I began to write.

[Diary Entry — November 9, 2014]

He called me angel this morning.

Not “baby” or “cutie” or “hot.” Not something random or cliché. He said angel. Like it was something he’d decided about me long before I gave him a reason.

And the craziest part?

It didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like maybe I always was one. And I just forgot.

I don’t know what’s happening to me.

My lips still feel swollen from the way he kissed me. Not just gentle. Not just sweet. But hungry. Like he was starving and I was the thing he’d waited for. I’ve never been wanted like that. Not even close.

And when he touched me — just my hair, just my waist — it felt like heat. Like a match had been struck inside me and I didn’t know how to blow it out. I didn’t want to. I wanted it to burn. And it’s still burning now.

Every time I blink, I see the look in his eyes before he leaned in. The pause. The wait. That silent question:

“Can I?”

And my answer — not in words, but in the way I tilted forward, heart first.

Yes. Always yes.

He didn’t just kiss me.

He changed me.

Something has opened up inside me and I don’t know how to close it again. A door, maybe. Or a window. Or a floodgate.

I feel… everything. All at once.

Desire. Fear. Excitement. Longing.

That ache in my stomach that won’t go away — the kind that isn’t hunger but is. A need I don’t fully understand yet, only that it lives in me now.

He made me feel like I was the only girl in the world. The only mouth he wanted. The only skin he wanted to touch. The only person he saw.

And this morning, when he called me angel, I think that was his way of saying, You’re not like anyone else.

God, I don’t want this to go away.

I don’t want this to fade into another “first” that disappears into memory.

I want to hold onto it. To him.

Even if it ends one day.

Even if he breaks my heart.

I want this.

All of it.

Him.

And I want to be the kind of girl who’s brave enough to say that out loud.

Maybe not to him yet.

But at least… to myself.

I’m falling.

Not slowly. Not gently.

But all at once.

And for now, he’s the one catching me.

And calling me angel.

And making me believe I really might be.

When I closed the diary, my fingers trembled just a little.

Not from fear.

From feeling.

And somewhere deep inside my chest, I could still hear his voice.

“Morning, angel.”