Proof

   April 3, 2011
        I raise onto my tiptoes for a kiss and you pull me to you with a hand on the small of my back. I wind my arms around your neck, fingers running through your hair.

You tug away. “Woah, don’t mess with the hair.”
        You run a hand gingerly over the top, smoothing a few strands. I stick my tongue out at you and you smile down to kiss me. A moment of absolute bliss unfolds around us as you try to kiss away my fears and arguments with my parents, my expectations of myself battling with their expectations for me.
        I find myself winding my fingers back into your hair, to draw myself closer. In a second, you've withdrawn again, removing a hand from my waist to untangle my fingers.

“Are you serious?” This has never been a big deal to you before.

“What, is it bad that I want my hair to stay nice?”
        It isn't bad. But I know you've gotta be joking with me, pulling my leg, a flirty kind of humor.

You should know better than to tell me not to do something. Grinning mischievously (you would call it devious) I again raise onto my tiptoes and ruffle your hair.

Before I can even react, you’ve taken me by the shoulders and shoved me away so harshly that I stumble back a couple steps. I blink, look up at you and see you fixing your hair. Your lips are twisted, eyes dark, brow furrowed. It's an expression I've come to be familiar with. 

I reach to brush your arm and you pull away.

“Ian.. I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

You huff. “No. You didn’t.” A silence unfolds between us.

For a second, you seem to soften, reach towards me. I flinch. You retract your hand.

 “I’ll just see you tomorrow, okay?”

        I don't reply, because you're already walking away.