Snapshots

Don't Let Go

The first time I held hands with a boy I cared about, we were fifteen.

Louis and I have been friends since the fourth grade when I first moved here, and while I have always thought of him as a very special person, our relationship stayed platonic until a very special summer.

During this time, we were all a close group of friends – Louis, my friend Natalie, Natalie's boyfriend Sean, and I. We started a tradition of getting together at someone's house every Saturday night to watch a movie. This particular Saturday night, Sean offered to host the movie at his house. I don't remember for sure what we watched, but it might have been Titanic, because I remember Natalie crying toward the end.

Louis and I were seated very close to each other on the couch – close enough for our shoulders to touch and make my ears tingle with pink warmth. Throughout the movie, our hands crept closer and closer to each other, like the Titanic approaching the iceberg. I was listening so intently to my pounding heartbeat that I was only half aware of what was going on until our wrists made contact. My body froze, and I kept staring straight ahead at the same spot on the TV, as if any movement at all would make him take his hand away. Slowly, so slowly, my pinkie finger grazed the side of his thumb. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, and then his palm opened up. My heart jumped, and I sunk my warm, sweaty hand sink into his, which was equally as warm and sweaty. My knuckles disappeared beneath the surface of our intertwining fingers, and I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding and timidly laid my head on his shoulder. His cheek pressed gently on the top of my head. I stopped staring at the TV and gazed at our hands.

I didn't ever want to let go.