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(I feel like I'm screwing up my entire life, and I don't know why.)
Carson has never felt like this before. She doesn't know what it is, but it's something, and that something is addictive in its momentum, pulling her onwards even though she knows she should stop.
It's a something that becomes more with every inexplicable moment, every feeling she doesn't understand, like the way it gets harder to breathe around Greta or how she really likes it when Greta touches her hand.
And then there's that moment where she leads her into a dark room, and Carson feels like this, here, this is a discovery. Of what, she isn't sure yet.
And then Greta kisses her. Greta kisses her, and it's a moment of luminous shock and a feeling like champagne bubbles rising in her chest and oh.
Oh.
This is the type of kiss that everyone talks about, the one she's never quite understood. Kissing Charlie is comfortable, perfectly nice, perfectly safe. Kissing Greta is none of those things. It's danger and thrill and something burning and bittersweet, and even for those first few seconds, that first kiss, that first closeness, it is more, more than she's ever felt, more than she knows how to feel.
So she kisses her back. Kisses her and kisses her and kisses her, until she's forgotten everything except this, the taste of Greta's lipstick and the feeling of her hands on Carson's back and the push and pull of their bodies and that thrill, like electricity, all this lightning-edged half-fearful closeness.
Greta is the one to break it, in the end, and it might have been seconds or minutes or hours, Carson can't tell, everything has turned upside down.
Kisses have turned her world inside out and she doesn't know how to process, and Greta's leaving before she can make sense of any of it, and there's a man on her arm who Carson is sure she doesn't want and she's so confused.
Confused about everything except one thing, one thing she fights so hard to deny, to ignore, to forget: she wants to kiss her again. Wants to kiss her like she's never wanted anybody, wants that and more and everything, and none of the guilt or confusion or frustration inside her can cancel out that feeling.
All she can do is fight it for a while, pretend it's not there, that it's not real, that she doesn't replay that kiss in her head non-stop, a loop of a moment that felt like a blazing, impossible miracle.
Eventually, she gives up fighting, because she doesn't really want to fight this feeling after all, and the distance between them collapses, into a closeness she can't get enough of. She thinks she's addicted to the kisses that they share, and she thinks that she should care more about the fact that she shouldn't be, but she doesn't.
If this is something she's not supposed to be, not supposed to want, then maybe 'supposed to' doesn't mean anything at all.
When she kisses Greta, all she knows is that, for better or worse, she wants this, this lightning-strike feeling, this glimpse of an everything.
(But I'm not stopping, because... it feels good.)