My Lost Love

2.How it all started.

The days that followed were a blur of stolen glances, excuses, and electric silences. We never spoke about the kiss. Not directly. But the air changed every time we were in the same room.

I started to crave his presence — the way his eyes would find mine across the dinner table, how he’d brush past me a little too close in the hallway, how his voice softened when he said my name. He was careful, always, when Dad was around. But I could tell he liked the risk. It excited him. And I… I was already too deep.

One night, my father had a late work dinner. My stepmother was out with her friends. I was alone in the house when Carl texted.

“Passing by your side of town. Need to drop off some documents for your dad. You around?”

My heart pounded. I knew this wasn’t about documents.

“Yeah. Come over.”

I changed my clothes twice. Settled on a soft blue dress that wasn’t too obvious but hugged the right places. I waited on the couch, pretending to scroll through my phone, but every second dragged.

When he walked in, he didn't say much. Just placed the brown envelope on the dining table and looked at me.

“You look… beautiful,” he said, voice low.

I swallowed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

He sat beside me. Not across. Beside. The space between us vanished in seconds.

His hand found my knee.

“I shouldn't be here,” he murmured.

“But you are.”

Our second kiss was messier. Hungrier. I was trembling — part fear, part anticipation. I had never been kissed like that before. He held the back of my neck like he never wanted to let go. And for a moment, I believed he wouldn’t.

We didn’t go further that night, but the line had already been crossed. There was no going back. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not for me.

After that, he became a regular part of my life — but only in the shadows. A message late at night. A phone call while I walked to school. A visit when he knew Dad was out. I told myself it wasn’t wrong if it felt right.

But even then, something deep inside me whispered:

You are giving him too much.

And he will never give it back.

Still, I didn’t listen.

I was in love.

Not the sweet kind you read about in books. No.

Mine was the dangerous kind — the kind that steals you piece by piece.