Prologue
You know those pathetic stories when a girl falls in love with a guy who doesn't give her a minute of his precious time? The ones in which she hangs onto his every word, absorbing like a sponge everything he ever said or did, making him look like a God when he was nothing but a common mortal? The ones in which she's left, abandoned, bereft, hurt, sad, or everything combined? The ones in which he treats her like crap?
Sure you do. Everybody does.
I bet you all had a crush on a pretty little blue-eyed, blond-haired, dimples-in-his-cheeks kind of boy, the one who was always the smartest, the cutest, the-best-at-the-playground kid?
I didn't.
I never liked those boys. Actually, when I think about it, I never liked boys in general. Except one.
You always have to have some exception. If you don't, there is no story.
In my case, he had green eyes. Bronze hair. No dimples... And no laughs. The laughs were rare, the real ones. Even those who were something more than a mask, they were never for me, they were always at me. At my stupidity and naivety, I guess.
I think I might have deserved that. After all, I was just a girl, right? There were tons of them. Tons of easy, interesting girls. The ones who drank, the ones who went out, the ones who had a nice social life. The ones who don't blush like a cripple if a boy even looks at them.
A lot of girls. Blondes, brunettes, tall ones, short ones, long legged, small waisted, beautiful, ugly, kind, jealous, pretty, cute, smart, nerdy, colorful, sensitive, nice, with their hairs curled and backs straight, their eyes and chin up, long lashed, bouncy, bubbly, energetic, curvy, slim, tight, sophisticated, confident, with their high heels and make up on.
So, it always narrows down to that one question: Why me?
Why not one of them?
Why did I have to be the one with some kind of stupid, stupid bad luck that just wouldn't stop? Why did it have to be me? Why, fucking why?
I'm babbling, I know.
But, the fact is, it was me. Maybe I was too dumb, maybe too naïve, I don't know anymore. I guess he was my soft spot, always. He was since that first day ten years ago. He still is. I mean, who could actually resist a green eyed, bronze-haired, nine year old boy with the prettiest smile in the world? I couldn't. I didn't.
I should have had.
Maybe it was some kind of my obsessive-compulsive need for love, since I never had it – not enough, anyway. Or maybe it was just my – obsessive-compulsive again – need for him.
You never know. It just happens. Once you are your own person, you don't want, no, you don't need anyone, but then something small happens and it takes you away for forever. Suddenly, you belong to someone else and you don't even know it.
It happened when I was seven, when he first held my hand in his small, tiny fingers. We were kids – what did we know? But I just knew that something changed then. It wasn't something big, nothing like fireworks or tidal waves, nothing like butterflies or hurricanes, just a soft, warm current that spread through my body, all the way down to my toes when a soft blush reddened my cheeks.
You just know.
And I knew.
Sometimes I really hate my intuition.
And sometimes I just hate him.
First story. Don't hate.