I've noticed how, whenever I walk back from your house, down the pitch black winding streets and up to my darkened front door, I take the keys from my pocket too early. My fingers find the small silver key to your window first, perhaps because it's the one I want to use the most. Then the cold heavy one that opens my locker at school-another place I'll see you. A padlock key, a backdoor key, a diary key, a key that serves no purpose and who's use I've long since forgotten and then, finally, the front door key.

The twisted lump of metal grates against inside the lock as I find myself forcing the door open. Mother and father in the sitting room, sister slumped in slumber over her homework at the kitchen table. No one has heard me come in. I creep up the stairs, one foot at a time, missing out the seventh step because it creaks from the time you slipped on the stairs and I had to grab your hand to stop you from falling. Ernst. That was the first time we really knew each other outside of the world of school, adults and religion.

"Hanschen, is that you?" my father's voice sounds from a distant part of the house

"Yes, father,"

"Where have you been?"

"Out, father"

"Don't take that tone with me! Where have you been?"

"I was going to… study, father, with Ernst Robel, but he wasn't home."

"You spend too much time with that boy"

"He's a friend… sir"

"A school friend?"

"Since the beginning of the year,"

silence

"goodnight sir"

But my father does not reply, I catch sight of the moon through the dimmed, icy window pain.

I remember, being so close to you, and not being able to touch, to kiss. Sitting in front of you in class -it was everything I could do not to turn and stare and give everything away. But I had to play the game, wait; looking back the real reasons escape me. What were the odds that you felt exactly the same? How was I supposed to know?

Six years and I've come to love everything about you, your awkward little movements, the way you stutter over your words in class, the way your right eyebrow jerks upwards when your really, really laughing. And then, more recently, the feel of your skin on mine, the taste of your lips, your shaky breathing as I trail my fingers across your stomach.

Running back, late one night after losing track of time in the vineyard. That's when I first knew. There holding you close to me under the starlight for one more kiss goodbye. I knew. That it'd stopped being a game. I wanted so much just to tell you. But I couldn't. I don't understand how it's so easy for you. To tell me you love me and not be afraid –afraid of being vulnerable, afraid of being hurt.

"I love you" I whisper it under my breath, trying it out, testing the words on my tongue. How did I fall so far, so fast? How have you done this to me?

I called tonight, but you weren't there, it's been two nights now. I haven't seen you, I can't think, I can't focus. Even when everything tells me that this is wrong. I can't stop. With you it feels so right.

I've noticed how, whenever you walk towards my house, down the sun-soaked winding streets and up to my blue front door, you try and tame your raven black hair, even though it looks perfect just a little bit messy. You smooth down your neat clothes, as if they weren't going to end up on the floor just a few minutes after you stepped inside. You smile at my sister and shyly greet my parents as they leave the house, you're nervous, your breathing is already heavy and ragged by the time you've seen me at the window. Our eyes meet and my heart starts to race faster than the speed of sound, your just the other side of the thin, shabby square of wood, I can almost feel the heat of your body, so close- And then, finally, the front door key.