friends shouldn't know how you taste

The summer before the acceptance letters came felt longer than any season should have been allowed to feel. It was the kind of summer where nothing important was supposed to happen, and yet everything did anyway. They spent most afternoons pretending they were not counting down to something they didn’t know how to name. Or maybe they did know. They just didn’t say it. The boy leaned against the wall outside her house, watching her try to tie her hair properly after it kept falling loose . “You’re doing it wrong,” he said. “I know,” she replied. “But I like it organized so I'd keep trying.” He didn’t argue. He never did when it was about her. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that came from years of sharing the same space, the same jokes, the same secrets nobody else understood. Inside the house, her phone was somewhere on the table, face down like it was trying not to be noticed. She knew who had messaged earlier. She didn’t check. Not today. “Do you think we’ll still talk after university?” she asked suddenly. The question came out softer than she intended. The boy looked at the ceiling instead of her. “I don’t like thinking about that.” “That’s not an answer.” The wind moved slowly, carrying dust and the smell of drying leaves. Somewhere a motorcycle passed, loud enough to break the quiet but not loud enough to break the feeling pressing against his chest. He wanted to tell her that he was scared. Not of university. Not of leaving home. But of the distance that was already growing inside the space where they stood together. Instead he said, “If you forget me, I’ll be offended.” She laughed. It was the same laugh he had memorized years ago — quick, sharp, and slightly breathless at the end like she was trying not to show too much happiness, in her words not showing too much teeth. “I won’t forget you,” she said. He didn’t reply, but smiled softly behind her back. Because he wanted to believe her. And because part of him was afraid that she was wrong. They went inside when the sky started turning the color of old bruises before rain. Her house was quiet. Her parents were at work. She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, then closed it again without taking anything. “You’re nervous,” he said. “You are too.” “How do you know?” “Because you keep talking when you’re nervous.” He considered denying it and decided it was pointless. She walked closer to him then, slow, like testing whether the ground would stay stable under each step. The air felt different when she stood in front of him. Not new. Just heavier. She placed her hands on his shoulders, lightly, as if asking permission without words. He didn’t move away. He never moved away from her. The first kiss was not dramatic. It wasn’t rushed or sudden like the movies made it seem. It was quiet. Careful. Like someone touching something fragile they were afraid might break if they held it too tightly. It did not feel wrong in the moment. It felt inevitable. When they separated, neither of them spoke immediately. The clock in the living room made small mechanical sounds, marking seconds that felt louder than they should have. “We shouldn’t do this again,” she said eventually. He nodded. But he didn’t let go of her hands. “I mean it,” she added. “I know.” They stood there for a while longer than either of them admitted to themselves later. Because inside both of their minds was the same terrifying thought that neither of them said out loud: If they kept pretending this was nothing, maybe it wouldn’t hurt when it ended. But they didn't know that The letter would come two weeks later to fulfill that their silly wish. And everything changed. BOOK BY ITZJAYBROWN85 😎😎