I had this vague childhood memory of touching lips with Micheal when we first met. I was twelve and he was fifteen.
He tasted like your older brother and the ice-cream we had for dessert. He tasted as if he loved me in his own fifteen-year-old boy kind of way.
That memory was better than this one. It felt better than him telling me that I couldn't see you again—even after you were discharged from the hospital.
I had started to develop feelings for you that scared me and you were the only one I could talk to about it. Now, they were taking you away from me.
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Love you all.