There’s something magical about doorways, they’re an in between, not going, not leaving, like a space where you can live immobile for a few minutes. Those kisses are special because you’re not quite there yet. Doorway kisses don’t often happen when you’re already in love, those kisses happen on the bed, in the kitchen, in the bathroom with a toothbrush still in your mouth.

He wants to walk you home later, you insist he doesn’t. You say you have a friend to call, and you do, but she doesn’t answer and neither does the next one so you walk home along with your headphones plugged in and you cry a little bit for the loss of a boy you were just beginning to fall for, for the loss of something that could have been.

It had been five months, two days and four hours since she first sat down and read that headline. It had been three years, eight days, and nine hours since she had last seen Paul. It had been three years, five days, and two hours since he had phoned her from village in Syria to break up.

Our bodies had changed. There was flesh where flesh didn’t used to be, rolls, and skin that had shrunk in some parts and expanded in others. I pretended not to notice. So did you. But as we lay there, trying to cool off before heading outside, you apologized to me for your body. As if it was something you had to apologize for. It was softer than before, yes. But it was still you.