prompt 3: a pocket's contents
a crumpled up piece of paper, a note.
It's funny how light paper feels in the pocket, no matter how heavy the words it holds. This paper holds a secret—an unraveling of a heart, a mistake made tenfold over. It may not be his darkest (no, actually, it is his brightest), but it is one he knows can never be found.
In the chaos of a crowd, he spots her, alone: a radiant burst of sunshine, illuminating his every shadow. And in that moment, he realizes he isn't breathing. Barely a second has passed. In just one more swift moment, he drops the crumpled paper in front of her, hiding the movement behind his leg.
And so this is his moment, what will he say?—he grabs her arm firmly (softly?) and his touch breathes a million possibilities, a million secret memories. [He hates how soft she makes him.]
"You dropped something." A pause, he reaches down and picks up the paper, hands it to her. "You know, you should really find a better way to discard your trash."
And he turns on his heels, although his touch lingers one second more. As he leaves the classroom, he wonders what will go through her head when she sees it—what will she feel [will she feel the last place his lips touched her skin?], what will she think [will she think of the sounds she made the last time they rendezvoused?].
It's funny how light paper feels in the pocket, no matter the weight of four little words:
Meet me out back.
