Finally, I look up. Up. UP.

And everything stops.

Everything.

My breath.

His foot.

My heart.

His mouth.

My world.

Everything.

Stops.

Then he takes a step forward.

And everything starts again.

Only now, it’s all amplified.

He comes closer and closer, all while I stand still, afraid—not of him—but of the devastating love I still feel for him.

“He sees you, Becca.”

*     *     *

sense

/sɛns/

noun

1. any of the faculties, as sight, hearing, smell, taste, or touch, by which humans and animals perceive stimuli originating from outside or inside the body.

He stands two feet in front of me, his eyes as intense as his stare. He looks the same as the image I have of him forever burned behind my eyes—eyes that have wept for him.

His hands are in the pockets of his shorts, his T-shirt stretched across his chest. Physically, he hasn’t changed a lot in the year since I’ve seen him. But it’s his presence that has my feet glued to the ground beneath me.

He’s no longer the sad, beautiful, mourning boy who had needed me like the last time we were together. Now, he stands a little taller, a little more confident. I guess when you work hard to make your dreams a reality, you have every reason to walk with your head held high.

My gaze drifts to the faded gray Globe logo printed across his chest, and I don’t know how long I stare at it, my heart thumping harshly in the walls of my chest before I realize the image is still.

Frozen.

My brow bunches as I look down at my top, watching the rise and fall of my chest created by my heavy breaths before looking back at his.

Still frozen.

I inhale sharply, my eyes snapping to his, and I blink once, twice, forcing back the tears threatening to escape.

He’s holding his breath.

Slowly, I raise my hand, my mouth parting, his name—silent—forces its way out on my exhale.

Then he does the same, his lips spread, his shoulders dropping with his outtake of breath. It’s loud, forceful even. But his single exhale doesn’t just release the breath he held within him, it releases a jumbled mess of memories. Hundreds, thousands of them. All of us.

Josh takes a step forward at the same time my dad’s hand lands on my back. He knows I want to run.

Josh takes another step.

And then two.

Three.

He’s close, almost too close, as he bends at the knees, his nose level with mine.

My hands fist at my sides.

Then his lips curve, his eyes widening. “Emerald Eyes.”

The two words are a prayer as they fall from his lips, his voice like a symphony teasing my ears, ears that have roused for him.

He’s so close, I can feel his breaths on my forehead, smell the slight scent of cologne mixed with everything Josh. My head spins, my mind becomes lost in the thousand memories of us. From the first time he knocked on my door, wearing the same exact cologne, to the first time I sat in his car wanting nothing more than to breathe him in. I told him I loved the way he smelled. And now, just like then, I want to get lost in it. In the way it wraps itself around me, making me dizzy, making me needy for him.

I kissed him that day, his lips warm and soft across my mouth. The taste of his kiss forever scarred on my lips, lips that have longed for him.

His mouth moves, and I know he’s speaking, but the thumping in my eardrums has turned the world silent. My dad’s touch is gentle, urging me forward, and I force the chaos out of my mind. Josh raises his eyebrows waiting for my response, but I don’t have one. Dad, however, clears his throat and steps forward, half blocking me from Josh’s view—something Josh senses right away because he straightens to full height, his chest rising with his intake of breath.

“We’re here to see Josh Warden,” Dad says, even though he knows he’s speaking to Josh Warden.

Josh Warden, Josh Warden, Josh Warden. His name replays in my mind, over and over, while his shoulders slump, his gaze switching to me quickly before going back to my dad, taking in all 6’4” of him. “That’s me, sir,” Josh murmurs, the confidence he exuded only minutes ago no longer visible.

I step away from behind my dad’s protection and lift the tag from the lanyard hanging around my neck. I tap it twice and then look up, waiting for his response.

His eyebrows bunch and he reaches for the tag, his fingers brushing mine.

His touch is like fire. Sweet, torturous flames setting off too many emotions. I struggle, and I fight, and I fight some more, to not move away, to not fear his touch.