‘Because you’re Emma Watson?’

Because you’re Emma Watson?

The answer springs to your lips, trite, glib and easy. It might even make her laugh through her tears. But...

It’s not truthful. Not completely. Because there’s something else. There’s just something about this girl that would tug at your soul, make you helpless with longing, even if she was nobody at all.

Even if she was just another girl, in just another city, standing at a gas station waiting for just another ride.

‘I know,’ you tell her, firmly. ‘Don’t ask me how. But I know.’

Emma stares at you for a long moment. There’s a hard, searing, charged look on her face that stirs a memory from long ago.

Then she kisses you, and it’s like the very first time; like she’s falling on top of you in the back seat, pressing your lips together and refusing to let go. Her hands grip the back of your head with surprising strength, and you kiss her over and over, memorising the taste of her, the shape of her lips, the scent of her hair.

Your foreheads bump together, but there’s something different about this time – something urgent, something ****. Hot tears slide down your cheeks, and you wonder when you started crying; then you realise that they’re Emma’s tears, warm and salty.

She’s kissing you goodbye, and Emma’s hands finally loosen as she starts to pull away.

But you’re not letting go of her that easy.

Your hands find hers and hold on, keeping her there, refusing to let this moment slip through your fingers. Emma’s pressed right up against your skin, but she’s still not close enough; you squeeze her tighter, closer, like you’re falling through the sky together and there’s only one parachute.

This isn’t goodbye. It can’t be.

Not while she’s still here.