He had brown, curly hair when I met him. He wore a black pants that sagged just right. I had my favorite sun dress on. He was a full-on sport guy. I was 17 and young. I had too much of my life going on. There were parties and night outs and all the boys I want to kiss and not wake up next to with. He was young and just as naive. He had all his life figured out. He played ball and went to church on Sundays. I lay on my bed hungover on Sundays. He liked me, he said. A lot, I asked. And laughed and laughed and laughed at the thought of someone liking me so much. He didn’t say anything. I kept on laughing. He stared at me until I finally stopped. Why, I asked again. His eye glimmered and faded into nothing. He looked down on his knees and pressed his fingernails into them. I looked away. I could no longer bear seeing him worship me so much. I didn’t deserve the way he treated me. And he did, for an interesting turn of events, treat me good. But I was scared of how good he treated me that long after all these will last, I will crave more and more until he no longer can give. And I can’t be too selfish to ask that much from him, when I only laugh in the middle of his sentences.
And now I look back, reading all the messages we exchanged. I just was never sure of him. Until today.
And I guess summer, like the feelings that come with it, lasts only for a short while but stays in our memories forever.