I squeeze you hard. I wrap my arms around your body for a moment tighter than previously and what will follow after as you're about to leave. I tightened and released my grip on your hand three times in a row when we were holding hands on the couch. Each time I expect you to return this but you don't.
I forget that we were raised differently. We had different mothers. And you were a boy and I was a girl. That the public displays of affection from parents to offspring are different between genders. My mother would squeeze each finger and release all the way down our held hands and back while we sat in a church booth and it was never thought of twice by others.
I am not sure what it means or if it means anything, but one day I hope you say it back to me.