Page 14 of Kisses and Paperclips

Moments like this, just kicking back and seeing her smile, feel rare—comfortable in a way that’s hard to find. She’s easy to talk to, sharp, and funny, and suddenly I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed someone’s company like this.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about?” she sucks her teeth, clearly annoyed.

“Nope. I’d rather you go in blind,” I said, tossing her words from earlier right back at her. The look she shoots me is priceless. It’s the same look she gave when I dared to call Love Jones boring—blasphemy, apparently. She nearly lost her mind when I admitted I’d fallen asleep in the first fifteen minutes the only time I tried to watch it.

“What’s it about anyway?” I’d asked her, which earned me a full lecture about culture, romance, and why my opinion didn’t count anymore.

With her glare growing ever more intense, I can’t help but smile. It’s only fair to return the favor.

While we’re laughing about one of her favorite movie scenes, I catch her eyes drop to my arm as I roll up my sleeves. Her gaze lingers on the tattoo inked on my inner forearm—a triangle with a smaller one at the apex.

“Is that a mountain?” Her voice is softer now, curious.

I glance at the ink on my forearm—a triangle with a one smaller at the apex—and feel my stomach tighten. I forget it’s even there most days. The easy rhythm between us stumbles, like a needle scratching against vinyl. “Nah.” The word comes clipped, my voice lower, rougher than I meant it to be.

She notices.

Her brows pulled together slightly, sensing the shift. She didn’t say anything right away, studies me like she’s deciding whether to push or let it go. She waits a moment, her intrigue tangible. “Then what is it?”

I didn’t mean to go quiet for this long. At first, I was just turning the words over in my head, figuring out how to say them. But then the silence stretched, and I let it. This was my first tattoo, one of the only things inked into me permanently, and I never talked about it. Not really. Most people never asked, and the few that did got the same quick, rehearsed response—a couple of words, a half-truth, just enough to move the conversation along. But sitting here with Serena… it feels easy. Too easy. And I don’t know if I like that.

The thing about silence? It shifts, morphs. First, it’s comfortable. Then, it turns weighty. It becomes something else entirely, especially if you let it sit too long.

The way Serena’s body shifts just slightly, like she’s recalibrating, deciding if she’s overstayed in a moment I clearly didn’t want to share. She exhales, smooths her hand down her thigh, and reaches for her purse. Before I could think twice, I reach out. Not hard or possessive, enough that she stills. Her gaze flicks down to where my fingers rest lightly against her wrist, and her gaze meet mine. I exhale through my nose, my jaw tightening as I drag my hand away.

“My mother left when I was eleven,” I said, testing the words out loud.

Serena doesn’t react, only sets her purse back down sitting back into her seat her body facing me her warmth so closer than before. She waits patiently, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to be talking to her like this.

“She packed a bag, walked out, and never looked back.” I roll my glass between my palms. “Not a single phone call. No goodbye, no note…just gone.”

“This here,” I point back at the tattoo; her gaze follows. “Is a reminder,” I replied, still looking at the ink. The shape isn’t random; it’s deliberate. I chose this symbol because it’s more than a design—it’s a mantra. “To press forward,” I said, finally meeting her gaze. The weight of the words sits between us like a third presence. “No matter what—or who—happens to me.”

Something in her expression changes, like she knows exactly what I mean—knows it so well she doesn’t need me to explain. I see a glimpse of someone who’s had her share of battles and still found her way forward, the same as I did.

“I like it.” Her sharp, pink-manicured nails trace the tattoo’s outline, her touch light but deliberate, sending a rush of goosebumps over my skin. She notices—I know she does—because her palm smooths over my forearm, warm and soft, as if trying to soothe the hurt she knows lingers.

“My mom died when I was fifteen.” She said her gaze remaining on tattoo as she continued to trace it with her nail. I straighten slightly, caught off guard. It’s the first time she’s been this serious all night. The teasing, the banter, the challenges she keeps throwing my way—it’s all been walls, easy distractions. But this? This is a piece of her.

“How?” I asked, hoped the question doesn’t cause her to shut down.

To my surprise, she takes a breath and exhales slowly, and said, “Cancer.” Her fingers toyed with the napkin on the table, folding the corner before smoothing it back out. “Started as breast cancer. By the time they caught it, it had spread.”

She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, but there’s no lightness in it. “We had time. To say goodbye.” She tilts her head slightly. “But I don’t know if that made it better or worse.” I didn’t move, and neither did she.

This is something she’s had to learn how to carry, not a story she expects sympathy for. A chapter that still lives in her. A moment permanently inked into her memory, like my mother’s absence is inked into my skin. I don’t say I’m sorry. I sit there, letting the weight of her words settle between us, letting her have the silence she gave me. She looks up at me, something unguarded in her gaze, and for the first time tonight, it doesn’t feel like a game. It feels like we’re standing at the edge of something I don’t have a name for yet.

“Well,” she mused, tilting her head slightly. “That was heavier than I expected for a first date.”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “This is a date now?”

She smirks. “No, but if it was, you’d be losing points.”

“Points?”

She nods, keeping her expression perfectly neutral, but I catch the flicker of playfulness behind it. “Mmhmm. Rule number one—trauma bonding does not count as flirting.”

A slow grin spreads across my face. “That a rule for all men, or just me?”

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