It was a September foggy morning when we met. I caught your eyes and something inside me in that very moment just knew you were trouble. Maybe because you held that cigarette in a certain way, or maybe was the way you used to pronounce my name, always in a low tone, like you were tasting every single syllable in your lips. It made me shiver and it made me uncomfortable, and something along the lines of getting out of my comfort zone for a while made you just irresistible.
You told me you weren’t nice to people because when you are you get hurt and fucked over, I told you I had the same problem. And then a month later, I broke down my shell for you and was nice, I showed you I actually cared. I guess that was my mistake, because you were no different from the rest. I guess you were so scared of being fucked over you decided to screw me over instead.
And there was this day when I woke up and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I stood there in front of you, shaking as I gathered up all of my courage and asked, “Do you hate me?”
You gave me that stupid, skeptical look. “Of course not.” You looked into my eyes with those beautiful amber pools, the ones no one had ever bothered to notice except me. “You’re always so kind to me.” Those words shot through my heart like an arrow. Tears started to spill down my somber cheeks.
“Then why are you always so cruel to me?” I whispered.
Then it hit me. Like a truck, right through my heart. And in that moment my brain knew, what my heart just wasn’t ready to realize.
I loved you. I saw the future, the brightness and the fireworks.
You kinda liked me. You saw the milky skin, the soft hair and the red lips.
The edge of your lips tasted like desire catching fire.
And mine, like a mix of true love and a sweet romance.
You never wrote me poems. And I am still writing about you.
We were never in love. We would fuck in you car or on your bed where others girls had been or in the shower or while I was crying. We saw each other naked so often I have the image painted on the back of my eyelids. You ripped my underwear off. You always liked me more when I was vulnerable. I woke you up with kisses, you woke me up with hickies.
And for a long time, I thought they were the same thing.
I asked you once while we both got drunk why it was that I could write novels about you until the words got tired of being anagrams of your name — but at the same time you would never reciprocate. You took a sip of your drink, blew a smoke ring and broke it with your finger. “Dunno,” you said. We would fuck again later.
And that to me, was the closest I was of being loved, adored, liked, worshiped even.
But it was not even close to that. It was carnal, pathetic and almost disgusting. Those are the only adjectives I can give to our so called relationship.
“Is it a crime to be halfway in love with someone?” I used to ask in those drunk moments, the tears I would never let you see, always stinging. “Can I still feel something for you, after we told each other everything. After you betrayed and lied and never listened to me?“ You would meet my eyes, looking confused as if you never promised anything, and it was true, you never did.
“You don’t have to feel anything. Maybe it’s better if you don’t.”
I did messed up all the lines from the Great Gatsby. I fell for all the wrong reasons. You had a green light smile with a gun prodding the center of my back, and I was so lost in your senseless acts that I, for a long time, thought it could be close to love.
And my love for you was like a penny. It wasn’t much, but it’s all I had, and you threw it on the ground like it was nothing.
I craved that side of you that you didn’t show to anyone else.
You only craved the parts of me that was exposed to everyone else.
I said I loved you.
You said that the difference between sex and love is that sex relieves tension and love causes it.
To sum up, I saw someone worth falling for, you saw a body and a potential fuck.
I once found you sitting on my floor staring at a picture from when I was young. “God,” you said, “I really fucked you up.”
And then finally, my last words, "I hope it hits you like a truck every time you hear my name that you never fucked me up. But how badly you fucked us up."
And like that, you broke the heart I never even knew I had.
I remember talking with my best friend once I left you. She asked if I really were in love with you.
I had never realized that, after all you’d put me through, no one had ever even asked me that.
Within milliseconds everything came rushing back to my mind. I thought of all the 3 am conversations and secret shared glances in the hallway. I thought of how I opened my heart to you and let you in like I hadn’t done in a really long time. I thought of how you ripped it straight out of my chest and tore it to pieces. I thought of the 3 am tears shed into my pillow and the texts left unopened. I thought of how you broke my heart, and how you were the first person to ever do that.
I closed my eyes as four of the most important words I had ever spoken were about to come out of my mouth.
"No, no I wasn’t."
I decide then that love is a terrible, terrible thing. Loving someone as fiercely…must be like wearing your heart outside of your body with no skin, no bones, no nothing to protect it.
And loving you? That was impossible. You were worth a fuck, not a lifetime story.