We Only Dated Once. But It’s Haunted Every Other Kiss Since.

It was supposed to be nothing.

A one-time thing.

A mistake we could tuck away.

A secret we’d bury between “it didn’t mean anything” and “let’s never talk about it again.”

But here’s the thing about secrets:

They echo.

Especially the ones that felt that good.

Especially the ones that weren’t supposed to happen — but did.

We weren’t even close.

Not emotionally. Not romantically.

But in that moment?

It was electricity.

It was the kind of kiss that short-circuits the logic center of your brain.

The kind that burns through all your boundaries and then whispers,

“You’ll never feel this again.”

And it was right.

Because since then, every other kiss —

even the ones with people I’ve loved —

has felt slightly less.

Less urgent.

Less dangerous.

Less… alive.

And I hate that.

Because I don’t want it to mean anything.

I don’t want that one night to keep following me, reminding me what it felt like.

But it does.

And sometimes, when things are quiet —

when I’m kissed softly, lovingly, completely —

I catch myself comparing.

Not because I miss him.

But because I miss that moment.

The version of myself that was reckless.

Stupid.

Untouchable.

We only dated once.

But it rewired something in me.

And I still haven’t found the off switch.