Stewart and Pattinson have explosive chemistry here. The lead-up to the kiss is full of breathy sighs and quivering lips, the two inching closer, then pulling back, then coming closer still, as Edward tries to suss out whether he can control the overwhelming urge to drink Bella’s blood long enough to kiss her. But what sets Twilight apart is the intensity with which Bella reciprocates his very tentative smooch. In the end, she kisses him, deepening the embrace, pulling him closer until he panics and springs back, leaving her amid the covers, quizzical and full of self-doubt. It’s a scene that countless teenage girls have experienced for themselves (minus the blood-sucking factor): Lusting after a boy who is very bad for you until you’re left staring at your bare toes in bed, wondering what the hell you did wrong. Ten years after its release, Twilight stands as a powerful, darkly stylish depiction of teen female desire. So, why do I remember it otherwise?