Title: “Can I Kiss You? (Burning down the house)” The scene plays back like a dream—familiar, but not quite real. My house, soft light spilling from the lamp in the corner, shadows stretching longer than they should. Billie Love sat on the couch, her presence humming like a low-frequency wave, filling the space with something electric. The pizza box was open on the coffee table, the slices scattered like improvised notes. Each bite was hot, spicy, a little messy—cheese stretching, laughter breaking the rhythm of the silence. “Can I kiss you?” she asked, breaking through the atmosphere like a sudden chord change. Who asks that? Who holds a moment in their hands like it’s something sacred, something alive? Her voice was steady, but her eyes carried the question deeper, folding the night into itself. And then: yes. Or maybe I didn’t even say it; maybe the answer was already written in the way I leaned in, the way the room seemed to narrow, the way time slowed to a single, pulsating beat. The kiss wasn’t just a kiss—it was a groove, a rhythm, a connection that felt like it had always existed. It was THE KISS to be remembered for all time. Now, the memory plays back distorted, refracted through time’s lens. The couch wasn’t just a couch—it was an anchor, holding us in a moment that felt both infinite and fleeting. The pizza was more than pizza; the spice on my tongue felt like the echo of her question, looping endlessly: “Can I kiss you? Can I kiss you?” And Billie Love—her name lingers like the refrain of a song, impossible to forget, impossible to replicate. Was it perfect? Or was it just the start of something I’ll never quite finish? Either way, it was Once in a Lifetime.