It Wasn’t Just the Kiss. It Was the Smirk After.
- Master of Confessions
- Aug 3
- 1 min read
A kiss can be a mistake.
A slip. A moment. A weakness.
But a smirk?
That’s intent.
That’s acknowledgment.
That’s the part I can’t forget — because that was the part that told me everything.
It didn’t matter that we were in the stairwell.
Didn’t matter that I had someone waiting for me, and so did he.
Didn’t matter that we both said “this shouldn’t have happened.”
What mattered is how he looked at me afterward.
Like he’d been waiting.
Like he got what he wanted.
Like he knew I wasn’t going to tell.
It was never just about the kiss.
It was the way it rewired the whole dynamic.
The way guilt wrapped itself around my lungs… and still left room for curiosity.
I’ve thought about that smirk more than I ever thought about his lips.
Because that’s the part that stayed.
The part I see in quiet moments.
The part I try to outrun every time I pretend nothing happened.
It’s not the kiss I regret.
It’s the power I gave away in silence.
And maybe that’s why I’m dropping this here —
Not because I want to be forgiven.
Because I want to be free.
