Three months. Almost. And I swore I wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t fall for you. At first I thought you were the sweetest guy, always texting me first, holding my hand, kissing my ear, telling me I was beautiful. It seemed to slip my mind that you had never put a name to our relationship. It didn’t matter, initially. I just assumed that we were something. That I wasn’t just another girl. That you weren’t using me, Our first kiss was… mind blowing. I wanted to do it over. And over. And over again. Fuck, I still want to. Even after what I know.
All those girls, Tim. There were so many. That time you told me you liked me? At a movie with another girl. That weekend I had to cancel our plans? Getting blown by the school whore. All those late night texts? You were conversing with my best friend at the same time. Telling her the same things you told me.
So I confronted you. We stopped talking. I was so lonely, Tim. Although you weren’t exclusive, I sure as hell was. When you acted like a complete and total asswipe, I was crushed. Your sweet, caring, sexy facade crumbled to dust. And so did I.
Until you texted me again. Dammit, I forgave you instantaneously. Every awful thing you said went down the drain; got carefully locked away by my wildly selective memory. This time, things were better. We established ourselves as fuck buddies, which I told myself I was fine with. Even if I thought I loved you, even if I wanted an actual relationship. You again would text me every night, whether horny or hungry. Or sad. You listened to my awful jokes. Threatened to kick the ass of the guy who tried to make me smoke. Let me bitch for ages about my problems, only asking the occasional favor for yourself. And I was ecstatic to do anything you asked. When your grandma died, I tried to be there. I didn’t want to pry too deep, but I wanted you to confide in me. Assuming you would do as such was one hell of a mistake. All I wanted was for you to be happy.
I remember every fucking thing you said, every look you gave, every kiss we shared.
I remember you telling me that I wasn’t nothing to you. I remember telling you to take a nap when you were bitching about being tired, and you asked me to come and take one with you. I remember you telling me your favorite physical feature on a girl was a smile, then you asked for a picture. Of me smiling. I remember you tickling my feet, remembering my favorite color, calling me by my favorite nickname.
I fell hard, Tim.
And I can’t get back up.