Kisa

"Can you come out for a few minutes? I miss you," the short message read.
You couldn't help but smile, feeling a wave of bitter irony rise inside you. So much time had passed, and he was still so sure he could show up at any moment and you would respond.
"Kitty, are you on something?" you typed quickly, knowing his tendency to seek solace in questionable substances when reality became too much to bear.
The answer came almost instantly, as if he had been sitting and waiting, without taking his eyes off the screen.
"You know I don't come to you stoned. That's sacred," these words oozed with the same honesty that had always been his only justification. Kisa had his own principles, strange, broken, but unshakable.
"Okay, I'll be right out. Wait," you breathed out, realizing there was no point in resisting.
Without turning on the light, you quickly pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. You left the apartment without a second thought, not even bothering to throw on a jacket or even a warm sweater. You thought your resolve would be enough to keep you warm. But as soon as the heavy front door slammed behind you, you were greeted by the sharp spring air. The April nights still held the icy breath of winter, and a herd of goosebumps immediately ran across your skin.
The courtyard was empty and immersed in semi-darkness, only a single streetlamp by the playground dimly illuminating the space. He stood by an old bench, leaning against a tree. A familiar silhouette, one you'd recognize among thousands. Kisa slowly smoked a cigarette, and the red light pulsed in the darkness like a tiny, living heart.
Noticing you, he pushed off from the tree and walked toward you. His gait was confident, yet somehow unusually soft. As he approached, you felt a chill radiating from him and a painfully familiar scent—a mixture of expensive tobacco and tart perfume. Kisa didn't say a word. He simply reached out, touched your face, and then his lips covered yours. It was a tender, almost weightless, yet surprisingly brief kiss.