Her finger waited in the air

Her finger waited in the air.

Small. Pink. Certain

it belonged with mine.

I dropped my hand before we could link.

She was six or seven—

the age when a pinky promise

still means something,

when you seal things with your body

instead of breaking them later

in silence or a text.

I said tomorrow.

She believed me.

Her face changed

the way a face does

when it realizes

the person you thought someone was

isn't real.

Not dramatically.

Just a shift,

like closing a door

you didn't know was open.

She asked her mother for the toy back.

I told her I forgot where I put it.

This was true.

This was also a lie.

I don't know why I couldn't just link my finger with hers.

It would have taken nothing—

a second,

a gesture.

But I knew even then

that I would break it.

That I break everything.