Remember me

   I can still remember how the sun was hitting his eyes and he had to put those stupid hollywood star's sunglasses on and hide his blue eyes.

   He never met my parents. He'd park in front of my house, but not in my driveway, and I'd get into his car and feel that sweet good perfume it had.

   "Again", he'd say, "I drove all the way down here. You gotta have something in mind for us to do", but I never did.

   Narcissist. Such a Narcissist.

   He knew about me being crazy, and he knew how I was a threat to myself. He also knew about my depression and anorexia, specially because we had lunch together. He used to sit by my side and see the new cuts on my wrists I always failed to hide. He always noticed my wrists and my fake eating.

   To be honest, I never thought he'd actually ever notice me. He was too proud and full of himself, and I was a self destructive bitch full of self hate.

   But he kept on asking me out, and we'd always do what I wanted to do. Even if they were the weirdest things.

   He took me to a cornfield because I wanted to see the fireflies, he took me to watch a movie like twilight because I read the book and loved it, he took me to a drive in were the bathrooms were so nasty. We had fun.

   He was probably a little embarrassed of being in love with me, since I was known as the depressed, get-drunk-go-cry girl. 

   That's probably why he was such an asshole sometimes. He didn't show up on my play I wanted him to watch, and he never went to my locker after class.

   But the weekends would come and he'd ask me out. Sometimes I felt depressed late at night and I texted him, asking him to pick me up. 

  He always picked me up! Always!

  We had sex so many times. He got my virginity and I got his. And when he went down... Oh, wow. He was the one who made me scream. He used to whisper dirty things and turn me on even more, if it was possible. We had sex in the back of the car, on the floor and under his bed. Good times. And awesome orgasms. 

  After sex, we'd both lay down and look up. He'd touch me gently to feel my cuts and scars and say "Please, don't hurt yourself ever again"

   " I can't promise you that", I'd always reply.

   It felt good when I was around him. He loved me, I can tell. He never really said that, but I could see through the way he looked at me at prom night, the way he used to moan close to my ear, the way his eyes were desperate to meet mine, and the way he smiled with those dark glasses every saturday evening.

   And I loved him too.

   We still talk sometimes, but we're not teenagers anymore.

   That was my love story. I just wish that stories didn't have an end.