Our first date wasn’t a date.
It was dinner for ten at Spring Moon at the Peninsula in Tsim Sha Tsui.
Years before we ever kissed,
he walked into my space.
Sharp suit. Sharper mouth.
Arrogant. Demanding. Alive.
I didn’t melt.
I didn’t swoon.
I filed him away under irritation and interest.
Then years later,
another meeting,
another city,
another collision that wasn’t a collision.
Different roles,
different lives,
completed.
But the space was the same.
Already stretched between us.
Already humming with something unnamed.