Three Kisses

Kylie texts me out of the blue. No warning. No build-up. Just — ping. A ghost clearing its throat. We haven’t spoken in three and a half years. Not a text. Not a passing smile. Not even one of those awkward, British half-nods you give someone you used to share a soul with. And yet, there it is: “Wanna meet up? xxx” Three kisses. Three. Kylie has always been a two-kiss woman. Economical with affection. Efficient. Controlled. The third kiss sits there like an extra chair at a dinner table — uninvited, suspicious, slightly desperate… and somehow louder than the other two. My heart does something unpleasant in my chest. Like it’s tripped over itself in public and is now trying to recover with dignity it doesn't quite possess. Because this wasn’t some dramatic fallout. No plates smashed. No doors slammed. It was worse than that. It was erosion. Slow. Petty. Relentless. The kind that pretends it isn’t happening until there’s nothing left to stand on. Excuses layered like damp washing left too long in a basket. “Sorry, can’t meet up… I’ve got a dippy tummy.” “Sorry, my cat has fleas.” “Sorry, I’ve pulled a muscle blinking.” “Sorry, I’m waiting in for a parcel that hasn’t been dispatched yet.” “Sorry, I’ve got Covid again.” (Post-Covid. The woman had Covid like it was a hobby.) And somewhere between the dippy tummies and imaginary parcels… I started to wonder — Maybe she just doesn’t want to see me. So I stopped asking. Took the hint. Took a step back. Then another. Then another… until I was so far away I couldn’t tell if she'd let me go — or if I’d quietly removed myself. Thirty-four years of friendship slipped quietly out of reach, without either of us having to say the ugly part out loud. Which is a shame. Because we met when we were four. She had rainbow beads threaded through her shoelaces, and I remember thinking — yes. That one. That’s my person. Like some ancient, unspoken contract signed in glitter and playground gravel, and sealed with sticky hands and blind loyalty. She took me under her wing. And I stayed there. Through everything. Until she met him. The man I shall not name. I knew from the first handshake. You know that feeling? When something hard and cold settles in your stomach like a stone that’s decided to stay? That. We didn’t like each other. Not even a polite dislike. A mutual, silent agreement that if we were both drowning, we’d consider helping — but only after a brief internal debate. But she was smitten. And then… the excuses began. By the time her wedding came around, I felt like I’d RSVP’d to someone else’s life — and still turned up out of habit. I stood there, watching her smile at a man who looked at me like I was a stain he hadn’t quite managed to scrub out. Her oldest friend. The one who’d been there for everything. Christ, she was there when I gave birth. And now? I felt like I’d wandered into the wrong function and was too polite to leave — clutching a drink I didn’t want, smiling at people I didn’t recognise. After the wedding, there was one final text. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, trembling with everything I wanted to say. But in the end, I didn’t stay quiet. I told the truth. And in doing so, I handed her a gift. A get out free card. No questions asked. No more excuses needed. No more dippy tummies. Just… absence. So why now? Why the three kisses? I stare at the message. Then type: “Shall I pop round in 10?” Keen. Aggressively keen. Borderline unhinged. Her reply comes instantly. “Nooooo. My house is a shit hole.” Well. That’s new. I stare at the message for a beat. Then think — Fuck it. (Subtlety has never rebuilt a friendship.) I’m already halfway there when the texts start flooding in. “Don’t come.” “Please don’t come.” “It’s really bad.” “I mean it.” My phone pings in the passenger seat like it’s trying to escape. Too late. Three and a half years is a long time to sit in silence. I’m done with it. Her house looks the same. Same blue door. Paint slightly worn, like it’s been trying its best without much support. I knock. Wait. There’s movement inside. A crash. Something that sounds suspiciously like a panicked swear word. She’s definitely home. It takes a while. Long enough for doubt to start creeping back in. But then — The door opens. And there she is. Kylie. Older, yes. But glamorous. The familiar, old-skool kylie glamour pushes back through, dusted off and defiant. Big hooped earrings sway from her lobes, bold and unapologetic, like they’ve survived everything she has. Except her face is doing something strange. Like it’s trying to hold a secret in place. “I told you not to come,” she says. And then she opens the door wider. Sweet. Jesus. The house isn’t messy. Messy is a pile of washing and a mug you forgot about. This is… archaeology. Layers. History. A civilisation of clutter rising towards the ceiling like it’s trying to escape the ground. I step inside carefully, like I might disturb something ancient and cursed. “Wow,” I say. “I think you’re one episode away from Sort Your Life Out kicking your door in.” My laugh bounces off the piles and comes back slightly warped, like even humour struggles to survive in here. Kylie looks like she might pass away from embarrassment. “It’s gotten a bit out of hand,” she mutters. “A bit?” I pick up a pizza menu from what appears to be 2007. “This menu predates emotional stability.” She winces. “Well… I’m here now,” I say, softer. “And sadly, I haven’t brought Stacey Solomon — but I do consider myself moderately bossy and emotionally invested.” That gets a small smile. And just like that — We begin. We build a system. Keep. Bin. Charity. Simple. Except it isn’t. Because this isn’t just stuff. It’s… evidence. Of who she was. Who she became. And who she forgot to be. Then I find them. Action figures. Dozens. No — hundreds. Grown-man toys pretending to be collectibles. I hold up a Darth Vader. “What’s this about then?” I ask. She doesn’t look at it. “Won’t be needing those anymore.” Ah. There it is. A small, quiet victory unfurls in my chest. She’s free. Or at least… finally starting to be. We keep going. Hours pass. The house begins to breathe again. And then — I find it. A scrapbook. Tatty edges. Worn corners. Held together by sheer will and questionable glue. I made it. During our last fallout. A desperate, slightly unhinged attempt to stitch us back together with glitter and memories. I thought she’d thrown it away. But here it is. Still. Surviving. Like us, apparently. I hold it up. “You kept it.” She exhales. “I was going to burn it once,” she admits. “Firepit. Wine. Bit dramatic.” I raise an eyebrow. “But I couldn’t.” And just like that — Everything that needed saying… is said. By evening, the house is transformed. Not perfect. But lighter. Like it’s exhaled something it’s been holding onto for far too long — and isn’t quite sure what to do with the space left behind. She looks different too. Not the Kylie I lost. Not quite the Kylie I remember. But something in between. Something… honest. Uncurated. Slightly fragile. Real. A new chapter. And this time — I think I might be in it. Later, I sit in my car outside her house. Hands still, for once. Heart quieter. I glance at my phone. At the message that started it all. Three kisses. I smile. Because maybe… They weren’t desperation. Or guilt. Or habit. Maybe they were something simpler. Something braver. An awkward, imperfect reach across the silence we both helped build. An extra kiss… For the years we lost. And as I pull away, it hits me — Not everything that falls apart is meant to stay broken. Some things just wait… Quietly. Patiently. Under dust, pride, and badly timed silence. Until you’re both ready to come back… … and admit you made the mess together.