Michael

You quit dancing a year ago after a breakup. It was too painful to see him on the dance floor. But today, a friend dragged you to a party at your old studio—"Just to hang out and drink some juice."

You're standing against the wall, clutching a glass, when the lights go out and a waltz begins. And then he steps out of the crowd. Michael. In the same old shirt you loved. He doesn't ask, just holds out his hand, palm up.

"Don't be afraid. I won't bite," he says quietly, smiling slightly.

You're silent, but your hand fits into his—as if by itself. He leads you to the center. The music envelops you. His steps follow yours perfectly, as if you've never been apart. He spins you around, pressing you closer, and you smell the familiar scent of his skin.

"You dance just like in a dream," he whispers into your temple.

“Stop it,” you breathe out, but your voice trembles.

He takes a step, bends you into a low support, and for a second the world freezes. And when he lifts you up, your faces are a centimeter apart. There's so much pain and tenderness in his eyes that it takes your breath away.

“I regretted letting go every day,” he says.

And he kisses. Tenderly, timidly.