The first light of day filtered through the two-story windows of the living room, lighting up the wall that blocked the view of the kitchen, spilling around the corners to bleed into the dining room and TV room. The warmth did not quite reach my toes as I sat upon the counter, holding the girl I had a crush on close to my chest, burying my face into her shoulder as she told me what she would do if I kissed her. Her hair smelled sweet, like a fresh stream bubbled out beneath the roots of a large oak. Her body familiar, touched and held many times before that it became platonic and normal to anyone who might see. Her fingers gripped my back, holding fast to the shirt I wore as she spoke, her words sweet, her words terrifying, her words lost to the fraying edges of my memory. I held her as long as I could manage. If I let go too early, I feared I might press my lips to hers, and I would step over a line that the wall of crosses told me not to. I remember looking at them while we embraced, seeing each and every one hung up by the front door, decorating a wall and proclaiming who we obeyed. I knew what would happen should our kiss be overheard, should we be caught. And I moved in a few short weeks. She could not protect me from afar.

I knew the whispers of what happened to people like me when we were caught. I knew the places we went to, the places we disappeared to. I knew the rumors of what happened there, and the dangers of not being able to escape. I did not trust I would not vanish in the night, never to return. I could not risk the affection I desperately craved.

And so, with a downward glance, I pulled away from her, and I told her not to get her hopes up, because I had felt this before and it turned out to mean nothing. I couldn’t look at her. We crawled onto the couch and pulled a blanket over the both of us. I tried to sleep. But I never truly slept from that night forward.

Yesterday, my now-girlfriend kissed me. It was softer than I expected. A quick peck, a gentle piece of affection that I always wondered about but never experienced. She pulled away and did something with her hands to indicate how excited she was that she was bold. She shuffled back to her car and I, remembering myself, quickly headed down the street towards mine. Rain continued to dance upon my shoulders. A smile I could not stop crept its way onto my lips, and even as men shot me dirty looks for how I was dressed, my smile didn’t falter. I did not meet their gaze with enough vitriol to kill—I didn’t have it in me. I just wanted to get to my car and smile and feel my heart race in my chest.

It was my first kiss. And it was beautiful.

Beautiful in the way it made me feel. Beautiful in the way it freed me. Beautiful in the way that the momentary fear, the momentary terror, could not take hold of my soul and make us stop.

I wish that I could take the child on that kitchen counter aside, and tell her everything would be okay. That one day, she could be authentically herself, and she would be so happy she wouldn’t be able to process the rush of emotions. That she’d be okay. That she’d survive despite it all and be able to watch the glorious light of a rising dawn.