Breathes

• Emma Bentley, Grade 10, Alfred Deakin High School
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'The Text Generation 2014' competition

They sat side by side on the cold bench in the moonlight, silently watching their breaths fogging in front of them. He glanced over at her and hoped she would look at him, but she was too busy staring at the stars above them, spread out like grains of sand on a black sea. She wondered if he would say anything. Usually he talked almost constantly, about anything and everything, and she would listen and take it all in, and by the time she’d formulated an answer, he’d have gone on to another topic. She sighed heavily, and he saw her breath swirl out into the night and he thought how odd it was that that same breath was in him and in everyone. He wanted to say something to her but he wasn’t entirely sure how to shape the words, so he didn’t say anything. Instead, he watched her. Breath in. Breath out. The fog streaming out like a waterfall in slow motion. She looked up at the stars and tried to count them. One. Two. Three. Which one had she counted again? She looked down at the ground in front of her, and in the corner of her eye she saw him looking at her. She turned her face to him and smiled slightly. He smiled back, relieved that she wasn’t completely lost to him tonight. He opened his mouth to say something, and again realised he had nothing to say. He closed his mouth. She took his hand in hers. He felt a warmth spread through him at her touch and he smiled again. His hands were so big holding hers, and she liked the difference because it made her feel a little bit safe. His fingers felt so familiar to her and she loved the way they felt interlocked with hers. And then he leaned in and he kissed her and she felt like the stars had come crashing down and all their warmth and light was now inside her.