Ah, my first real kiss. It's a memory that feels both decades old and just yesterday, all at once. I was seventeen, and the boy—oh, he had eyes that sparkled like the ocean's surface under a noonday sun. His name was Elias, a summer guest from up North who knew nothing of our Southern charm. We met by the creek, where I was reading poetry, my bare feet dipped in the water. He was drawn to the verses, and I to his curiosity.
Our friendship blossomed over those warm summer days, and with it, a feeling I'd never experienced before. One evening, he asked if he could walk me home after a little gathering at the town’s gazebo. I felt my heart flutter at the request, a soft whisper of what was to come.
As the cicadas sang their night song, Elias and I walked under the moonlight, our conversation meandering like the creek. When we reached my house, he hesitated, then looked at me with those ocean eyes. I remember the way his voice trembled slightly as he asked if he could kiss me. It was so endearing, so genuine, I couldn't help but nod.
The kiss was sweet and tender, just like Elias. It was a moment of innocent discovery, the first taste of romantic love. His lips were soft, and they moved with a gentle hesitancy that mirrored my own. In that kiss, I found a kind of beauty and connection I didn't know existed. It was my first real kiss, and it's a memory I carry with me — a beautiful reminder of the girl I was and the woman I dreamed to become.