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Description
The sun escapes us swiftly, and I'm only beginning to notice that dark has overtaken the day. A faint light enters the room from the window adjacent, illuminating the white cloth covering your pillows almost obscenely-- how many times before had I laid my head on those pillows and dreamt about us, about how it would be in the future, about the way it was when we first met? And the light seems to be making a mockery of it all, laughing at my futility. I'll never be allowed that experience again.

You sit across from me on the bed, cross-legged, fidgeting with the hem on your jeans. Pulling the strings, biting your lip. I try to catch your eye.

--

Naturally, the first thing that becomes blazingly obvious when we start dating is that you're a romantic. You hold my hand, you drive me home, you buy me fancy meals. And I don't feel entirely good about that.

“If it bugs you that much, you can get the next one.”
“Well that's the thing. I hate it when you pay, but I want you to keep on doing it anyway.”

You laugh, but I'm still flustered over it. Welcome to womanhood, I can't help but think.

--

I think you're asleep. I wouldn't have asked, otherwise.

“Who are you, really? And...what were you before?”
“You'll just have to wait and see.”

--

I don't cry, I don't beg you to reconsider, and yet you're still looking at me with pity in your eyes. As if it isn't bad enough.

You pull up in front of my house and I swallow the sickness in my throat. Breathe, exhale. Breathe, chance a glance.

And that look is still in your eyes, as I pull my hand from yours for the final time, as I murmur “one” and lean forward.

“One?”
“One more.”
“One more for now.”

Our lips meet and for once, we take it slow.

--

“Well I don't know what to say.”
“You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know, is all.”
“Okay.”

I stand up and stretch, my eyes sweeping across your room, looting the area for memories. Building your Ikea dresser, wood chips poking through my jeans. Laughing at the “fine literature” that fell out of your guitar case. The first time I held you, that comfortable weight on my chest, exhilaration flowing between us as my fingers ran through your hair, music playing randomly in the background. I sigh.

“I was nothing before.”
“What?”

I turn around, not really absorbing the words, just surprised that you've decided to speak.

“Before. You asked me what I was before.”

I stay silent. Tears prickle the corners of my eyes as they widen, and the memory flashes before me, an intimate sting. It seems cruel, but appropriate at the same time.

“Then who are you now?”
“Hun, if I knew that, I wouldn't be letting you go.”

Description
The sun escapes us swiftly, and I'm only beginning to notice that dark has overtaken the day. A faint light enters the room from the window adjacent, illuminating the white cloth covering your pillows almost obscenely-- how many times before had I laid my head on those pillows and dreamt about us, about how it would be in the future, about the way it was when we first met? And the light seems to be making a mockery of it all, laughing at my futility. I'll never be allowed that experience again.

You sit across from me on the bed, cross-legged, fidgeting with the hem on your jeans. Pulling the strings, biting your lip. I try to catch your eye.

--

Naturally, the first thing that becomes blazingly obvious when we start dating is that you're a romantic. You hold my hand, you drive me home, you buy me fancy meals. And I don't feel entirely good about that.

“If it bugs you that much, you can get the next one.”
“Well that's the thing. I hate it when you pay, but I want you to keep on doing it anyway.”

You laugh, but I'm still flustered over it. Welcome to womanhood, I can't help but think.

--

I think you're asleep. I wouldn't have asked, otherwise.

“Who are you, really? And...what were you before?”
“You'll just have to wait and see.”

--

I don't cry, I don't beg you to reconsider, and yet you're still looking at me with pity in your eyes. As if it isn't bad enough.

You pull up in front of my house and I swallow the sickness in my throat. Breathe, exhale. Breathe, chance a glance.

And that look is still in your eyes, as I pull my hand from yours for the final time, as I murmur “one” and lean forward.

“One?”
“One more.”
“One more for now.”

Our lips meet and for once, we take it slow.

--

“Well I don't know what to say.”
“You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know, is all.”
“Okay.”

I stand up and stretch, my eyes sweeping across your room, looting the area for memories. Building your Ikea dresser, wood chips poking through my jeans. Laughing at the “fine literature” that fell out of your guitar case. The first time I held you, that comfortable weight on my chest, exhilaration flowing between us as my fingers ran through your hair, music playing randomly in the background. I sigh.

“I was nothing before.”
“What?”

I turn around, not really absorbing the words, just surprised that you've decided to speak.

“Before. You asked me what I was before.”

I stay silent. Tears prickle the corners of my eyes as they widen, and the memory flashes before me, an intimate sting. It seems cruel, but appropriate at the same time.

“Then who are you now?”
“Hun, if I knew that, I wouldn't be letting you go.”