I wrote this a long while back, debated posting it, then pushed it aside. But you know what? I don't care. So here it is.
I fell in love when I was fifteen.
We sat on the slope of a hill, and his head was in his hands. Tears threatened to fall, but I know he wouldn't let them.
"I'm sorry," I repeated for the twelfth time. "I can't change what I feel."
It had been a seven-month whirlwind, from my skin being stuck to the leather in his car from kissing for so long, to three hour long phone conversations, the picnic table soaked with my tears as the realization that everything was back to haunt me had sunken in.
He held my hand, he kissed my cheek, he made me dizzy with every touch, and we were in love.
But now he didn't understand. I stared at the middle schoolers playing soccer, and every time I closed my eyes, I prayed to a nonexisting god to switch places with one of them, to go back to before my heart was torn, hanging onto the last stitch.
His eyes told me that he heard me, but his body sent a message of confusion, and I knew I had broken his heart as well as mine.
He stood up and walked up the hill, stopping at the top. I followed him, more tears falling at every step.
He kissed my cheek one last time, tasting my tears, then got in his car and drove away.
"I always loved you" was the last thing he said to me.
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