You were half-smiling when you said you were unsure, and something with the way you were helplessly undecided made it sound like you were asking me out again.
You were now a bottle of beer. Cold and anxiety forming sweat beads in your neck.
Brushing your hand against mine was not a very good idea. It made me think of you and me again. Because that was all we ever did, brushing hands and never really learning how to hold one another.
I was imagining. Maybe, the reason why you were lonely, you said, was that because I still have a piece of you. Maybe, I own your heart. Your real heart, not the one that you have given out to countless others. You say it like I have stolen a kiss from you.
What I probably wanted was some form of security that we still had an imaginary love. This was just, probably, some form of regret. The kind that makes you think "what if", that makes you wonder if you will ever get another chance.
You never gave me your heart, I reminded you. For some reason, I recall I never really accepted it in the first place.
