In Remembrance of Better Times with a Fickle-Hearted Boy

July 11, 2011
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“No, you’re the cutest!” she poked his nose gently and giggled before resting her head on his shoulder.

I quickly turned away, clutching my forehead with one hand and my stomach with the other. I couldn’t bear to watch her – them, always all over each other, hugging, holding hands.

I could remember when that was me. The way he smelled, like Old Spice and artificial coconuts The way he was just a little too tall to hug, which was made up for by the was his arms completely encompassed my small frame.

I remembered how his shirt was always soft, comfortable against the skin of my face. How his sleeves hugged his forearms when he pushed them up to just below his elbows. How his jeans sat just a little too low on his hips, due to his inability to find the perfect fit.

I remembered how his cheeks turned pink when he blushed, a warm contrast to his cool, pale skin. The way the gold rings around his eyes sparkled when he laughed. The way his thick, dark eyelashes almost grazed the skin above his cheekbones when he closed his eyes.

He leaned down to whisper something into her ear, and she looked up and smiled before resting her head on his shoulder again. Hot, stinging tears formed in the corners of my eyes, and I bit down on my lip in an attempt to redirect the pain. I lowered my head and closed my eyes, allowing a single tear to trickle down my cheek before wiping it away.

When I opened my eyes, I saw him staring at me, his arms still wrapped around her. His blue eyes were dark with sadness. Longing. Regret. He blinked twice before glancing down and burying his face in her hair.





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