It was true.

People were obsessed with my eyes, and it was dumb. Still, I should’ve known then. I should’ve seen it then, that our friendship was fast approaching its expiration date. My problem was that I didn’t know friendships could have an expiration date at all.

“Hey,” Ali said quietly, the sound of his voice startling me back to the present. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Honestly. That wasn’t my intention.”

“Yeah,” I said, whispered the word into the darkness.

I couldn’t look at him anymore. I was tired. I was growing weary of jokes made at my expense, growing weary of carrying untold weight. I felt so heavy some days that I could hardly get out of bed, and I found it increasingly difficult to take so many different hits on a daily basis. My body had worn thin, lacked refuge. I no longer knew where I might fall apart in peace.

“Sometimes,” I said softly, “I wish I could just leave.”

“Leave where? Your parents’ house?”

“Just leave,” I said, staring up at the night sky. “Start walking and never, ever stop.”

Ali was quiet for a long time. I’d begun to deeply regret my entire conversation with him when he said, softly:

“Why?”

I turned to face him and realized he was sitting close to me, much closer than before. I nearly jumped out of my skin. We locked eyes and he made as if to speak, his lips parting for the briefest moment before they froze like that, a breath apart. He was just staring at me now, looking into my eyes with a startling intensity. I felt fear skitter through my blood.

His voice was different—almost unrecognizable—when he said, “Were you crying?”

Too fast, I turned away.

“Is that what you were doing out here?” A little louder now, a little sharper. “Shadi?”

I felt it then, felt the awful, burning threat, felt it building inside me again. I swallowed it down, tried to regain my composure.

Ali touched my arm, gently, and I stilled at the sensation. Could not meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s going on? What happened?”

The heat would not abate. It was ravenous again, hungry and terrible, pooling in my gut, my throat, behind my eyes. I’d tried for months to keep everything inside, to say nothing, speak to no one, soldier through. For nearly a year I’d held my breath, stitched closed my lips, devoured myself until I could not manage another bite. I’d not known the limits of my own body at the onset, had not known how long it would take to digest pain, had not realized I might not be able to contain it or that it might continue to multiply. I spent every day standing at the edge of a terrifying precipice, peering into the abyss, wanting, not wanting to plummet.

When his fingers grazed my cheek, I stopped breathing.

“Shadi,” he whispered. “Look at me.”

He took my face in his hands, pinned me in place with his eyes and I, I was so desperate to exhale this pain that I could not bring myself to break away. I was shaking, my heart trembling in my chest. Even now I was trying to push it all back, pretend it away, pull myself together, but there was something about his skin against my skin, the heat radiating from his body—that broke the last of my self-control.

When I started sobbing, he froze.

And then, before I could take another breath, he pulled me into his arms.

I was crying so hard I couldn’t speak, could hardly drag air into my lungs. I collapsed against him, bones shuddering, and was surprised to feel his skin against my face. His jersey was a V-neck, exposing a triangle of his chest to the night, to my cheek. I pressed my face against that heat, wet eyelashes fluttering against his throat, listened to his heart pound recklessly. My hands were caught between us, the thin jersey doing little to conceal his body from mine. He was warm and solid and strong and he was holding me in his arms like he needed me there, like he’d hold me forever if I wanted.

It all felt like a strange dream.

I might’ve never let go if it hadn’t been for my brain, for my stuttering brain, for my slowly dawning embarrassment. Only after, after my tears slowed, after untold minutes had elapsed, after I’d spent the heat in my heart on a single purchase did I realize I’d just fallen apart on a guy I had no right to touch, no right to burden with my tears or my pain.

I tore away suddenly, gasping a hundred apologies.

I wiped at my eyes, scrubbed at my face. I was suddenly mortified, afraid to look at him. Silence descended, expanded in the darkness, grew thick with tension. And when I finally dared to look up, I was surprised.

Ali looked shaken.

He was breathing so hard I could see it, could see his chest move up and down, up and down. He stared at me like he’d seen a ghost, witnessed a murder. He was still staring at me when he touched my elbow, traced a line down my arm, took my hand, tugged me forward.

Kissed me.

Heat, soft, silk. His hand was under my chin, tilting me up, breaking me open. I didn’t understand, didn’t know what to do with my hands. I had never been touched like this, had never felt anything like this, was defenseless in the face of it. He dragged his fingers down the side of my neck, my shoulder, grabbed at my waist, my sweater pulling, bunching in his fist. My heart was pounding dangerously in my chest, harder and faster than I’d ever felt it and I gasped as he moved against me, gasped as I drowned, went boneless as he broke away, kissed my throat, tasted the salt of my skin. A whisper, a whisper of my name and a hand behind my head and then a sudden, desperate explosion in my chest. He kissed me with a fire I’d never, never, I’d never, I’d gone limp, trembling everywhere, my brain failing to spark a thought.

I pulled back, backed away, fell off the earth.

I braced my liquid body against the bench, unable to breathe, certain I would never again be able to stand. I did not understand what had just happened, did not know how it happened. I only knew that it was probably bad. Probably very bad. Almost certainly, maybe, probably a mistake.

Ali looked at me, looked at me and then looked away, stood up too quickly, pushed both hands through his hair. He looked panicked.

“Oh my God,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t—”

He couldn’t catch his breath, I could see it from here, even in this half-light. He looked as shaken as I felt, and his disorder comforted me, made me feel less adrift. Less insane.

I stumbled to my feet, unsteady.

I had to leave. I knew that much, knew I had to go home, get there somehow, but my heart would not calm down. My head was spinning. No one had ever kissed me before. No one had ever touched me before, not like that, not like this, not like this, here, he was here again, his hands around my face again, his mouth soft and hot and tasting faintly of cigarettes. My knees nearly gave out as he held me, parted my lips with his, kissed me so deeply I cried out, made a sound I didn’t even know existed. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I felt certain I was dreaming, my mind failing me. He kissed my cheek, my chin, his teeth grazed my jaw, his arms drawing me tighter, closer. I felt every inch of him under my hands, felt him move, felt his body harden into a solid weight, a wall of lean muscle. The scent of him, his skin, hit me, confused me. I breathed him in like something essential, the resulting sensation so heady it shattered something vital inside of me, startled my consciousness back to life.