I held her hand tight, and I wasn't ever letting go. Because letting go meant moving on, and I wasn't ready for that.

If her hand never left mine, I could pretend it was an early saturday morning, waking up to her lips against my chest.

I could pretend to smell bacon cooking in the kitchen, my arms around her waist as she cooked.

Letting go meant forgetting how she tasted on my tongue, the honey-sweet sound of her voice.

My hand squeezed hers tighter; too tight. But I was already forgetting the color of her eyes.