Never Got Over You

by twenteseven

AU Stendan. Brendan and Ste were at school together years ago, and had a brief but intense secret fling that neither of them have forgotten. They're both 25 now, and they both seem to have moved on with their lives, until they see each other again for the first time in years, and everything changes. Rated M.

2. Chapter 2

Wow, thank you all so much for your reviews. It really means so much! I was really underconfident with this story - even more so than usual - so it was ridiculously lovely to read your response.

This is part 2, Brendan's POV. I haven't had time to properly edit for errors so apologies if there are any.

Please let me know what you think :)

PS There may be more that 3 parts in total - maybe 4 or possibly 5 now. I've gotten a bit carried away writing part 3 so I'm going to split it into different chapters.

2

You wonder if it's all in your head.

You know he's married now, and you can tell that he's moved on, and he's got everything that you hoped he would get in life, and you can't help but feel a little bit proud of him.

You wonder if he even remembers you.

Steven was the most attractive guy in your year – all of the girls were after him – and you had him. You had every part of him – and you had him in every way. And he loved you.

He told you that.

But you didn't believe him. He was young, after all – you both were. You couldn't have understood what love was. Sure, it felt real. It felt fucking indescribable. But it must have just been the hormones, exaggerating what was essentially just a crush, right? You were 16, 17. You couldn't possibly have been truly in love at that age.

You still wish you'd said it back to him though. You hope he never doubts that you felt it.

You grew into your looks. You weren't as attractive as he was at school. Now you've grown the 'tache and you know it suits you, and you've bulked out a little at the gym, and you notice girls turn their heads when you pass. You know they're checking out the way your suit trousers cling to your arse. You know it looks good. You know nobody looks quite as good as you do in a suit.

You know the pair of you together would look fucking divine now.

But at school you were plain, normal looking. Nothing special about you. Brown hair, dirty blue eyes. You wonder what he ever saw in you.

You weren't special like he was – with his cheeky grin and his never ending lashes – and that feisty attitude that made your heart race when you saw it kick in. He wasn't even aware of it though. Sure, he knew he could have most of the girls in your year group. But he never really understood why. He thought the girls were like that with everyone – but they weren't.

He was never arrogant with it, never thought he was better than you. He would smile and chat and flirt with everyone, and when you'd finally got together his flirtiness with other people made your hackles rise every time. But you knew he wasn't doing it intentionally. And you knew that he never looked at anyone the way that he looked at you.

And you saw whenever he stared into your eyes that he changed. He smiled at you like he didn't smile at anybody else; his eyes widened like they were trying to take in every tiny details of your features; his chest rose as he took in a long deep breath – like for a moment he had forgotten to breath because he'd been so wrapped up in watching you – and you understood that because it was exactly how he made you feel.

You loved him to the ends of the earth and back.

You remember the first time you realised that you liked him, as a friend. You always looked forward to Tuesdays, in Food Tech, and you realised it was because you liked his company. You felt comfortable with him, in a way that you never felt comfortable with other people. Everything had always seemed so forced before, and yet with him, it was so easy. He made you laugh. He helped you, without it feeling like he was patronising you. He was genuinely happy for you when you got something right.

You developed feelings for him when you were about 14. You were maturing, growing up, hitting puberty, and because of what your Dad did to you – because of what he had started doing to you when you were eight years old – you repulsed yourself with the thoughts you had about Steven late at night. A man thinking about another man in that way was wrong. That's what Seamus told you.

Despite what he did to you – how he touched you – he told you it was wrong for you to want another man. You block the thoughts from your mind. You learnt a long time ago to block it out, to separate your own sexuality from the memory of what he did to you.

When you were arrested for dealing drugs later on in life, and you spent 6 months inside, you saw a therapist, and they could see. They knew what was wrong with you. They tried to fix you – they couldn't finish the job – but they gave it a go. And you've coped with it better ever since.

You still find it difficult.

You remember when you realised you wanted him. Like that. You were 15. The rumours about him being gay hadn't started yet, and you were sat next to him in class. Mrs Brickley in Food Tech decided that for the final project she would mix the groups up, and she split the two of you up. She put Steven with Amy Barnes, because she couldn't cook to save her life, and Steven was the best in the group. You watched him all lesson – watched the two of them as they laughed together – and you felt anger rise up inside of you. You were jealous.

You wanted Steven all to yourself.

You suppressed it as well as you could for a while, working the anger out of yourself with a frustrated wank every night.

You hated Amy Barnes.

After you'd been split up in Food Tech you didn't speak much to Steven. You'd never been friends outside of the lesson, and besides a polite nod to each other when you passed in the corridor, you were nothing to each other for a short while. Despite him being everything to you inside your head.

When the rumours started circulating that he was gay, you joined in with Tom and the others when they expressed their disgust, because it's what you father had told you to feel, and you agreed to join them in teaching him a lesson.

The first time they beat him, you stood at the back and tried to hide your face. You were torn. You wanted so much to protect him – you remember the rush of panic that flooded through your body – and yet you could hear the words spinning around your head – a mixture of your father's voice and Tom's – repeating time after time how being gay was sick; it was a sin. It was unnatural.

You didn't have the strength within you back then to fight against it. You'd just turned 16, and you couldn't make a stand about how wrong it was to hurt him. Not when all your mates were in on it. Not when you father had instilled those ideals into you.

And yet it left you with a physical ache inside. Each and every time.

It still does.

You hate yourself for it now. You hope he hates you just as much for it too. You know you deserve his hatred.

If he even remembers you.

That first time, though - he noticed you; and he looked at you like he was begging you to help him. You turned away and left him.

You were always caught between helping him and hating him in the beginning. A part of you blamed him for making you have those feelings – for being so fucking beautiful that you couldn't help but spend all night thinking about fucking him. You knew it wasn't really his fault, but you needed something to let your anger out on.

You remember the first time you hit him. Tom had picked up on the fact that you always held back, so you lead the way the one time, and you felt your fist connect with his ribs, and you saw the way he looked up at you with confusion, and you hated yourself so much that you smashed up your bedroom that night and downed a half bottle of whiskey to yourself, falling to sleep with tears of self-loathing stinging your eyes.

The next time Tom beat him, you stayed behind afterwards, and you checked he was ok. He looked at you just as confused as if you'd hit him yourself. He asked you why you let them do it to him, and he told you he thought you were friends. You told him you were sorry, and you scarpered.

Each time it happened you felt worse.

Each time it happened you found a new excuse to leave the lads afterwards and to go back to check he was alright. You wouldn't let him see you – you'd hide yourself from view – but you'd watch as he picked himself up, dusting off his uniform and re-packing his bag, and walking on like nothing had ever happened.

You ached to tend to his wounds, to make it all better.

You started avoiding Tom, started making sure you weren't present when you thought they had something planned with Steven. You couldn't watch it anymore.

You remember when everything all changed for you.

It had been months since you'd hit him, and you walked by him when you'd been held back for detention, and you knew it was just the two of you, and you were alone, and he looked at you with such fear in his eyes, as if he thought he knew what was coming.

In that moment, you'd wanted to say something, to apologise, to explain that you hadn't wanted to do any of it. But you couldn't find the words.

So you grabbed him, and you backed him against the wall, and you took one look into his eyes before you leant in and you kissed him.

He kissed you back.

He forgave you for everything, and he understood it all when he let your bodies come together as one.

And your world changed in that moment.

You remember the first time you fucked him. You remember how you'd tried to do it everywhere, but had never been alone. You'd tried it in the school cloakroom; you'd tried it in the school bathroom; you'd tried it in the alleyway by the park; you'd tried it in the swimming pool changing rooms. You'd always been interrupted, always heard voices in the distance and broken away from each other with the fear of being caught.

Eventually you found a deserted house round the back of the cinema, and you took him there, and you were alone at last, and you sunk yourself into him and he looked up at you like you were his whole world, and you realised in that moment that you were irrevocably in love with him.

You just never told him that.

You distanced yourself from Tom's group, and Steven understood that it meant you were trying to make amends. His beatings continued, even if they were less frequent, but you had no hand in them. You wanted so badly to be able to parade him around school on your arm – to stick your fingers up to all the girls that still fawned over him because they were completely unaware of how much he loved cock – specifically your cock – but you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

You were paranoid – scared that if you dared acknowledge him in the hallway that people might know that you spent all you spare time with your cock buried deep inside of him – and you couldn't let that happen. You didn't want to be talked about, targeted like he was. You weren't strong enough to cope with that. You weren't as strong as him.

So you let him carry on with his entourage – the constant stream of girls he would flirt with and take on dates and kiss at a house party so as to deflect attention from the pair of you, as he insisted.

It just made you want him even more.

It made you want to mark him when you fucked him – and you did. And when his friends asked him once at school where he'd got his lovebite from on his neck, he looked at you and he smiled, and you heard him tell them it was some random girl he met outside football practice, and they believed him. You realised for a moment that you'd wanted him to tell them it was you. You wanted them to know that he belonged to you.

You knew he would if you'd asked him to.

But you couldn't let the world in on your secret.

You remember how much of a slut he was in the bedroom – how daring and playful he had always been – and the memory of it makes your skin come alive. He was always so pliant – so willing to try new things – and you experimented with everything you'd heard your mates talking about when they brought up the topic of sex. You loved his submissive side – how he let you think you were in control – but he was so unwittingly pushy and aware of what he wanted that you often let him take control without telling him you were giving in to him. Sometimes, though, you needed him to behave, and you loved to use his school tie to bind his hands together – to keep them under control and in line when it was your turn to devour him.

You remember how you loved to look at him in class, with that tie lying so innocently around his neck. He caught you looking a few times, and you'd flash him a grin, and you'd think about how you'd had him bound to your bed the night before, and you'd realise you were hard with the memories of it.

You kept his school tie the last time you'd used it on him.

You still have it in your wardrobe, amongst the rest of your ties. Sometimes, when you're dressing for a meeting, you feel the material between your fingers, and you're right back in that room with him, and he's yours all over again.

It breaks your heart to know that you'll never be in that moment again – that you'll never feel the pulse of his body beneath yours; and you'll never again watch his face as you tear the orgasm from his body.

You remember when he broke your heart.

You'd been so ready - so close to opening up and telling everybody who you were. You drew your strength from him, and he made you think you could face the world with your secret. You didn't want to hide him anymore, you wanted to be proud to have Steven on your arm. You were proud.

You didn't ever want him to think you were ashamed of him. You were going to make it official - make sure he knew he was your boyfriend, and you were going to kiss him in front of everybody so they were left with no doubts about it either. You were going to claim him as your own.

But you got cold feet. At Amy's party - where you'd planned to do it - the fear had gripped you, and you'd averted his gaze every time he looked your way.

You saw him drape himself over Amy, and the twitch started in your cheek. You didn't like people touching your things. Amy was drunk and she was pliant, and you knew she'd always wanted him. He'd told you not to worry about it when you'd said you didn't like him being so close to her. He'd said she was his best friend and they didn't see each other like that.

You knew Leah wasn't Steven's daughter; he'd told you that secret, but you hated the hold that Amy had over him regardless. You hated that she could click her fingers and he would come running because there was a baby involved - a baby Steven loved as his own.

You admired his selflessness, but you weren't ready to share him.

Steven had the devil in him that night. He'd had enough of your shit, and the look he gave you told you everything you needed to know. He was drunk. And he was angry. And he was disappointed in you.

You watched from the kitchen as he took her hand and lead her upstairs. He glanced at you, assessing your reaction, his eyes pleading with you to stop him. You knew he didn't want to do it, and you wanted to stop him with every fibre inside of you.

But you didn't have the strength.

So you let him go. You let him go as your heart broke inside of you.

And you listened to her moans from the room upstairs. And you heard the familiar noises he made when he came, and you cheered along with the rest of the group you were standing with as they came back downstairs, and you felt as if your world had ended.

You couldn't look at him again. You went home and you trashed your room again and you rejected every single one of his calls. You listened to his voicemails in the following days, where he pleaded with you to forgive him, and told you how sorry he was, and you believed him, you really did. You could hear it in his voice, and it killed you to hear him hurting, but you couldn't face him. You couldn't forgive him yet.

He text you. His messages changed from pleading and begging, to apologising, to tempting you with promises of what he would do to make it up to you. And you wanted it. You wanted it so bad that you almost gave in. But you couldn't get past the look in his eyes as he walked off with her - how much he had wanted to hurt you.

You couldn't ever imagine doing the same to him.

You know you had done in the past. But not now. Not now you loved him more than life itself.

Over the weeks your anger settled. You watched him at school when he wasn't looking and you knew you were still in love with him. You knew you'd forgive him eventually if he kept trying. You knew you couldn't resist him for long.

The next party came around and you heard he was going, and when he arrived he looked sexy as hell, and you had to hold yourself back from him because it had been so long and you wanted him so badly.

You walked outside, and you let him follow you, and you listened to him. You already knew he was sorry, but you let him tell you again, and you regretted being so cold with him when the tears started to roll down his face. You were sure in that moment that this thing between the two of you was just as important to him as it was to you.

You let him kiss you. You kissed him back. You didn't care who saw you.

You were ready to tell everyone. If it meant having Steven - if it meant keeping Steven - you'd promised yourself you'd tell everyone. You couldn't lose him again.

You let him follow you through the house, and you found the nearest empty bedroom, and you locked the door. Not because you cared who saw you, but because you didn't want anything to come between you. Not anymore.

It was heated, and it was hurried, and it was desperate, and it was quick the first time - too quick. But you were hard again soon enough, ready to fuck him again soon enough, and you remember that he let you, and you knew that he loved it. He loved you.

You know because he told you that.

He loved you.

It took your breath away, and you weren't sure you'd ever been as happy as you were in that moment.

You wish you'd said it back. Because now you're not sure if he ever knew how much you loved him.

You remember that for 18 hours you'd walked around like the luckiest guy in the world. For the first time in your life you felt happy. Truly happy.

You saw him again after school, and he seemed different, and he was desperate for you to fuck him, and you could tell there was something wrong, but you tried to ignore it, and you gave him what he wanted - what you wanted too - and afterwards he changed your life again.

He told you Amy was pregnant.

You remember how your heart physically hurt, and how it took all of the effort you could muster not to drop to your knees and give up on life.

You were angry. Angry again that he had done that to you. Angry that it was Amy again in the way. Angry that it changed everything.

You realise now that was the last time you properly spoke to him, face to face. The last time you let yourself look at him.

You'd been so full of anger and resentment for weeks that you couldn't look him in the eye, let alone speak to him. When you did, it was online, and you'd told him that he needed to stop fucking around, that he needed to step up and be a real father to his child, and that he couldn't do that if he was with you. You pushed him away. And the tears had stung as they'd dripped against your hands as you'd typed out the words, flowing freely from your eyes.

You pushed him away, for his own good, and for your own good.

But you've never regretted anything more.

Months later you accepted an invite to Tom's house party, despite not having spoken to him properly in months, in the full knowledge that he lived near Steven, and you drank outside in the front garden hoping to catch a glimpse of him. It was well into the early hours of the morning when he rolled up in a cab, and you saw him lean over to kiss his boyfriend, and you saw him stumble out on his own and the cab pull away, and you were blind drunk and half way to angry by this point, and he looked so fucking perfect, and you had to have him. You jumped up, almost ran towards him, and you grabbed him, and he looked affronted for all of a second before he followed you all too easily, and when you kissed him with everything that you had, he kissed you back just as desperately, and he undid your belt buckle before you'd reached for his, and you had his trousers down seconds later, and he lifted his legs to circle your waist, and you knew he wanted this – needed it – just as much as you did. You fucked him raw, and it was subliminal, and it was dangerous, and it was quick, and he kissed you with everything he had until you came inside of him, and he came all over your hand, and you licked it up as he leant against your shoulder, and he tasted divine.

You walked away from each other, and you lost your phone that night, and you couldn't contact him, and the next day you walked to his house because you needed to talk to him, needed to make sense of it all, and you saw him leaving his house and getting into his boyfriends car, and you saw him smile at him, and you saw him kiss him with those same lips that had devoured you last night, and you weren't sure anymore. You weren't sure if he belonged to you anymore or not.

So you walked away. Again.

You tried to carry on with your life. Without Steven to come out for, you kept yourself locked in the closet, and you made a move on Eileen when your mates started taking the piss out of you for not having anyone. Your mother and her mother were friends - you'd known her all your life. You'd never fancied her, but she'd been after you for years. She was easy to tie down, and you needed an easy option.

Things had always been strained between you two. She was everything you were not. She was confident, happy, with too many friends and too much of an interest in what other people thought of her, and of you. She was all about keeping up appearances.

It almost didn't matter to her when you turned her down when the two of you were alone. As long as you let her fawn over you in public and didn't deny the lies she told her friends about your wild sex life, she was happy enough.

She pushed you to go to University – the same one she went to – and you went along with it because the idea of moving away from home, away from your father, and away from the memories of places you'd shagged Steven was appealing to you at the time.

You'd seen him a few times – caught sight of him from the corner of your eye as he waited for the bus, or wandered through town. You made sure he didn't see you – you'd heard about his boyfriend and his impending move down to London and you knew he wouldn't be interested in being reminded of his past mistakes, so you tried to make life easier for him by staying out of his way.

You moved away to Uni, went to Sheffield, and you found some solace in the distance you had from your past life. Eileen was still there though, desperate for you to be more 'normal' as she called it, and trying to get you to integrate with her new friends.

They were cocks. All of them. You hated them.

You acted out – did things you weren't proud of, things that hurt Eileen – anything to pass the time, to make life a little more interesting. You got drunk and kissed other girls; you got into mindless fights with people she was trying desperately to get you to be friends with; you sneered at all her girlfriends and passed sarcastic comments at everything they said. You thought if you fucked things up for yourself – if you caused yourself to hurt – it might take away the constant pain in the pit of your stomach. Pain because Steven wasn't there – wasn't yours any more – and never would be again.

Things got strained with Eileen. She held onto your relationship by the tips of her fingers, but it was far from perfect, and you did everything you could to try to push her away. But she was persistent, she didn't give up. She tried to fix you. She really tried. She didn't realise you were unfixable. There was only one thing that could make you whole again, and you'd lost it.

You knew you couldn't ever have a proper relationship with her, or with anyone. Nobody would ever be Steven, and that was the root of the problem. Always would be.

She set you up a Facebook account to try to make you fit in better – to stop everyone giving you that look when you told them you didn't have a profile – and she tagged you in god knows how many picture, past and present, and the email alerts really started to piss you off. She said you were 'In a Complicated Relationship', and you hated that people knew the two of you weren't normal, healthy. You were seconds away from deleting your account when your heart stopped, as Steven's face appeared on the side of your screen. People you may know.

It was as if Facebook was taunting you.

You thought about it over a few days, and then with the courage that only whiskey could give you late one night, as you heard the party raging away downstairs in your student house, you sent him a friends request.

He accepted within half an hour, and you devoured every detail on his profile. You told Eileen you weren't feeling well and weren't going to go out with the rest of them, and you revelled in being left alone to find out all about Steven's life.

He was living in London – cookery school by the looks – and you smiled with pride that he'd followed that path. You always knew he was an amazing chef. You looked at his photos, you read his statuses. You could see he was still with his boyfriend, Doug – what kind of a name is that for a 19 year old – and it looked like Doug was missing him, the amount of times he tagged him in some soppy status. Steven never returned the favour though – all he did was upload pictures of his culinary masterpieces, his nights out with friends, and his pride and joy – his kids.

He still looked just as beautiful as he ever did.

And you realised you were still just as much in love with him as you were that day he broke your heart and shattered it into a million pieces.

You wondered if you would ever get over him.

You haven't yet.

You spent hours in the following months visiting his profile in the middle of the night, looking out for that one picture that made your stomach flip. When he's on that beach – it looks like Wales; it's definitely British – and he's rolled his jeans up and he's took his top off and he's lying down in the sand sunbathing. He's got sunglasses on and he's smiling like he knows he's having his picture taken and he's sharing a joke with whoever's taking it. And it reminds you of that Sunday afternoon you spent down by the river on that Autumn afternoon when it was so uncharacteristically hot that he'd had to strip off, and he'd lain there, and you watched him like he was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.

He was, of course. Still is.

There's no use even trying to deny it.

You've been with men since him, but you've never felt anything close to what you felt with Steven. Nobody compares to him.

You'd find that photo of him on the beach and you'd touch yourself whilst you traced the outline of his body with your spare hand, and you'd reach higher heights than you ever did when Eileen was with you.

You revisit his profile time and time again – usually with the sole purpose of finding that picture – but sometimes just to check up on him generally. Make sure he's still alive; make sure he's still happy.

You were shocked to go onto his profile one afternoon and find his engagement announced. You remember how you stared at the screen for seconds, before deleting your entire Facebook account and throwing your laptop at the wall.

You didn't leave your bed for three days.

You told Eileen you were ill.

You might as well have been – you felt sick to your stomach. It just wasn't food poisoning like you told her.

You remember that one week after your life ended with Steven's announcement, Eileen told you she was pregnant. You hadn't known what to do. You weren't ready to be a father – you were a student, you had no money. You were gay. How the hell had that happened?

You panicked. You proposed to her, because your sister told you that was the thing to do. She was over the moon, and accepted straight away.

You didn't plaster it all over social media like Steven had done.

You remember how his face flashed in front of yours as you'd asked her the question.

You contacted the kind of people you knew you shouldn't mess with, and you asked them for work, because you were desperate for money. You started dealing drugs to make money for your unborn child. On your third drug deal you got caught, and three weeks after your arrest Eileen had a miscarriage.

You didn't realise how devastated you would be. You didn't realise how losing a child would shake your life up so much. You came close to realising why Steven had been so attached to Leah, even though she wasn't biologically his.

You realised that everything you ever did in life – everything that ever happened to you – was always going to remind you of him.

You saw the miscarriage as your punishment. You weren't entirely sure what you were being punished for, but you'd always felt as if you needed to be punished for something. Maybe it was because you were gay – your father would certainly think so; maybe it was because you'd hurt Steven all those years ago; maybe it was because you'd let Steven walk out of your life.

Whatever it was – you took your punishment.

And then some.

You ended up going down for six months for the drug deal too. You came out of prison a changed man. You'd resisted the therapy at first, but you know now that it helped you, eventually. Helped you to accept who you were, and what had happened to you in life.

Your life changed all together when you were released.

Your engagement was off - Eileen hadn't wanted to know you since you'd become a convicted criminal. It suited you just fine, if you were honest.

You dropped out of Uni. You carried on dealing drugs. You bought a nightclub with your profits after a year or so. Dodgy dealings became the name of your game – you commanded it too. People didn't mess with you – they were scared of you. You could intimidate with the best of them. It became quite profitable for you so you stuck to it.

Now you own three clubs in the North West – two in Chester and one in Manchester. You've made quite a name for yourself in the underworld.

You fuck men that come into your club. Never more than once. Never exchanging numbers. Preferably not exchanging names.

They all look the same – skinny, light brown hair, blue eyes, pretty features. If they've got attitude that's even better. You know you're trying to find Steven's replacement.

You know no-one will ever come close.

You remember one night two years ago when he came into your club. He can't have known it was your club – you spotted him across the room and you slunk into one of the darker corners of the club, and you watched him.

You had been starved of the sight of him for a while by then, and you stopped breathing, and your heart leapt into your throat as you took in the sight of him.

Still just as beautiful; still just as full of love and life and spirit and fire as he always was.

He loved you.

This amazing creature that you watched as he laughed along with his friends, dancing as if there was no tomorrow - he had belonged to you, once upon a time. And you let him go.

You still belong to him. You know you always will.

He just doesn't want you anymore – you're sure of that.

You watched him all night; winced when you noticed the silver band on his wedding finger; turned your head when the young American with the crazy eyebrows leant in and kissed him - a little too desperately for such a public place. You couldn't look, but like a car crash you couldn't keep your eyes from flicking back up and watching them – watching him – memories flooding back of the way he used to kiss you.

You remember how you were sure he didn't kiss the guy like he used to kiss you. You're aware it might have been wishful thinking, and you know you're probably exaggerating your memories of the passion the two of you shared because it seems too fucking incredible to be true from the way you remember it. But you're sure his body used to react more to you than it did to his husband.

You were called away for work and when you returned you caught him leaving. You remember seeing him walk out of the door, letting your eyes travel to the perfect roundness of his arse, and you remember when you devoured that perfection in every way imaginable, and you can still feel the ache inside when you realised how much you want that again.

You've led a pained existence since he left your life, you realise that now. Things just don't work for you when he's not there. It's like the light disappeared from your life when you let him walk away from you.

From what you've seen of him you know it's not reciprocated – if anything, he's flourished since you let him walk away from you.

He told you he loved you.

You wonder if he ever really meant it. You wonder if he ever felt anything more than just a crush in reality. You wonder if he ever thinks of you now, and you wonder if everything you went through together, everything you did to each other, is just a distant memory for him.

You wish you'd told him you loved him. You wish you'd told him that he was your entire world, and that the time you spent together was the most incredible time of your life.

You wish you could make him know just how much he meant to you – still means to you.

But you're not sure if he'd even be interested. You wonder if he even remembers your name.

You wonder if it's all in your head.