TW: Mentions of drinking, smoking, and self-harm
The first time we met, I was flustered. You showered me with compliments so that all I could think to do was reply with a smile and flirtatious “thank you.” You offered me a light, and I obliged as if a cigarette belonged between my lips. You put your number in my phone; all at once, I’d met two new habits that would prove themselves hard to break. The next day, I found you sitting alone on a bench; you grabbed my hand and led me away from my friends – that should’ve been an indication as to how this was going to be. With your back against a brick wall, you pulled me in, and we kissed to live music. It was messy and awkward: my lipstick on your face, your broken collarbone not allowing you to hold me the way that we both wanted.
Later, we filled the night sky with smoke on a plant-adorned rooftop. As my friend snapped Polaroids I’d never see again, I danced around, admiring how much I amused you through the kaleidoscope that I kept in my purse. After sneaking down from the roof, we walked to a party where we used my bag to smuggle beers for you and your friends. I went home late that night, without the people I’d come with, to spend more time with you. You drove me home in your dad’s truck and were a perfect gentleman.
After that weekend, we texted nonstop. Almost instantly, I figured out that you were bipolar. Unusually, I was all right telling you about my borderline personality. We compared scars and talked about all of the dark things that clouded our minds. You told me about your love for music, writing, and art. I found that you were just as passionate for photography and books as I was. You were everything I wanted and nothing I would have expected.
Soon, I found myself sneaking out just for a goodnight kiss. We shared laughs and cigarettes and coffee – still, that taste always puts you right back in my mouth. You would tell me your plans to steal me away some day and make me yours. I would help you in and out of your sling and watch you skate in the same caring way that you’d watch me dance under Friday night lights and listen to me complain about how much I hated the world. You’d drape your arm over my shoulders to make it known that I belonged at your side. The funny looks we got were probably more encouraging than not – just more for us to laugh about. We were at ease with one another, making it work day by day. I was comfortable with you and your friends, regardless of the fact that I didn’t seem to belong.
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