It was Saturday, and the sun had barely stretched over the city skyline when I started getting ready. I took my time—far more than I usually did. Every shirt I owned suddenly looked too loud, too boring, or just not right. After what felt like a war with my reflection, I settled on a simple pink knitted cropped sweat shirt and a black wide leg jeans that somehow walked the line between of casual and "I tried". My hair cooperated for once, and by the time I stepped out, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror—and for the first time in a while, I didn't look away.
I arrived at the cinema thirty minutes early my nerves had hijacked my sense of time, and though I sat quietly in the back corner of the lobby pretending to scroll through my phone, my eyes were glued to the entrance. When she walked in, it was like everything else dimmed. Soshan had this effortless energy about her—like she hadn't tried too hard , but somehow looked like the exact version of someone you'd imagine seeing in a dream. She smiled, that small half smile she always texted with, her eyes half closed giving a seductive tired look, I stood up a little too fast
"you just got here?" she asked.
"Yeah just walked in," I lied smoothly, wiping my sweaty palm on my jeans. No one needed to know I had been pacing around for half an hour rehearsing how to say "Hi" like a normal person.
We picked the movie The perfection. he raised an eyebrow when I suggested it—twisted psychological thrillers weren't the typical first date genre—but to my surprise, she was into it. We sat close, elbows brushing in the dark as the film unraveled with eerie intensity. I laughed quietly when she whispered sarcastic commentary under her breathe, and halfway through, I noticed she leaned over so slightly toward me. It was subtle, but I felt like a current under my skin.
After the credits rolled, we stepped out into the fading gold of the evening and found a quiet restaurant nearby. A small booth in the corner warm lighting, the kind of place where conversation seem to come easier. We ordered casually—pizza and Coca-Cola like something out of the 90s film—but the real indulgence came in the conversation.
We talked about art, favorite cities, and least favorite season. She liked horror movies and hated country music. I liked the thunderstorm but hated slow walkers. We traded likes and dislikes like secrets, each new piece of information pulling us closer. Then, without warning, the conversation dipped into more vulnerable territory—past relationships.
It wasn't planned, and neither of us lingered too long in the dark corners, but something about sharing those scars made the moment feel deeper, more human. There was this quiet understanding between us, like maybe we were both a little bruised but not broken. Maybe we were exactly what the other needed.
As we walked out into the night full from food and a little dizzy from the honesty, we stopped by her ride. She turned to face me, her eyes soft, curious. I hesitated, heart pounding and She didn't move away. I leaned in slowly, and when our lips met, it was light—tender, brief—but it hit me like a rush of warm air after the cold. That kiss… it didn't feel like fireworks. It felt like butterflies. Gentle, Fluttering, alive.
As she pulled back and smiled, I knew something had shifted. Whatever this was—it had begun.