When I first saw you, I was carving my name into the wooden desk that I sat behind. “Saman,” I had written, before I was interrupted by the door flinging open. The first thing I noticed about you was your, “Paramore,” shirt; my favorite band. I hunched over the desk, trying to see you better, but Jenny Lynch’s curly blonde hair was obstructed my view. I heard her giggle, obnoxiously, trying to get you to look her way. She was always the biggest attention seeker. I rolled my eyes, behind the jet black eye makeup that I painted on in Spanish, the period before. Jenny threw a crumpled up piece of looseleaf paper over to Nina Renolds, her best friend. Our math teacher had already placed nametags on the desks, that first day of school. We weren’t allowed to pick our desks. Do you remember her name; our math teacher? It’s kind of ironic that I don’t, because I spent the entire year trying my best to listen to her, and not get so distracted by you.
You strolled up to your desk, which happened to be right next to mine. I squinted at the name tag, until you must have noticed. “My name’s Adam. Nice to meet you,” you said, your voice deeper than most of the boys in the Freshmen class, cutting through the air like a sharp blade.
“I’m Samantha,” I muttered, then busied myself doing whatever I could to stop myself from staring. I zipped and unzipped my backpack several times and peeled at the plastic cover on my binder until it was all gone. I couldn’t help myself, though. Your hair was fantastic, back then. It was long, but not too long. It was flowy, but not too flowy. I liked that rocker haircut, but I hated when guys tried too hard and overdid it.
Then, there were your eyes. They were so dark; little black holes that looked like they belonged in a different galaxy. You pouted, but I later learned that you had a gorgeous smile. This pout was a subtle one, though. It wasn’t the type of pout you’d make before every hit; just a regular pout.
“Man, I hate math. I’d be perfectly happy with school, if math wasn’t involved in it,” you said, stealing the words from behind my lips. I tapped my pencil, awkwardly, on
the desk, keeping time with the smallest hand on the classroom clock.
“Yeah,” was what I said, back to you. I remember this so well. I could have said a
million things to start off our first conversation. I obviously picked the most creative one. You probably thought I was just oh so interesting. I pinched my arm, punishing myself for being ridiculously stupid. Our teacher attempted on getting the class’ attention by flickering the lights several times, which sent Jenny into a fit of giggles again. If she couldn’t get your attention by laughing, maybe she could get it by laughing while the lights turned on and off! You raised your eyebrows, fully aware of her effort. I smiled at you, and you smiled back. That was the first moment we shared. Sure, you said a few things to me before that, but these smiles made up a ‘moment.’ That ‘moment’ was when I became completely smitten by you.
“There’s always that one girl in every class,” you said. It could have came off cocky and arrogant, but you were so relaxed with how you said it that it came off just right.
“Oh god. I know. About 80% of the time, its Jenny Lynch, too,” I snorted. Her blonde hair swung happily in the humid air. Perfect beach weather always ruined the first day of school for me. If I was to decide the weather, I would give the first day of school that crisp, autumn coolness. It really bothered me when I was stuck in Mallory High, on days I could have been outside exploring. School days bothered me, in general. I hated being confined to a specific area. I hated how many rules there were. I hated not being able to do my own thing. Getting an education didn’t have to mean being programmed to be the exact same person as everyone else. I hated that were was an exceptable way to behave, and an unexceptable one. Who made this stuff up? They deserve one of your good, old slaps, Adam.
“I had Biology with her this morning. It was like someone glued her to my back the moment I walked in. Every time I turned around, all I could see were her creepy bright blue eyes,” you said, laughing. I never thought about it before, but Jenny’s eyes were really creepy. Or, maybe, it was just her. She was creepy all together. I couldn’t think of one new boy she hadn’t stalked. There was Neil Fisher, in 3rd grade, who she chased around the playground every recess. She harassed him so much, that his parents called the school and got him switched to a different class. Then, there was Greg Palmer in the beginning of middle school. She had a major crush on him. She’d write him little love letters and shove them in his backpack when he wasn’t looking. She’d sketch pictures of cartoon, smiling versions of the two of them, walking down the aisle. He was freaked out. He tried to be nice about it, but I saw him throw out the letters once she left the room. Then, of course, Matt Rielley. He was attractive, I had to admit. That didn’t give Jenny any excuse to completely stalk him, though! The rumor was that she followed him all the way home from school one day. She would go to his house and look through his window, then write in a diary what he was doing. It wasn’t normal. It was a problem.
“Aren’t you lucky?” I said, my words dripping with sarcasm. Living in such a small town, everyone knew eachother. I didn’t even have to ask you if you were a new kid. Plus, there is no way I could have missed you. You were different. You were my type, even though I wasn’t sure I had one. You just had this cool factor about you that made me like you a million times more. It was effortless and real. I believed that the Adam I met on that first day, was really the Adam you were. You know what they say, though, “You can’t judge a book by it’s cover.” You had a lot more depth that just any other victim of Jenny’s. You had more depth that I had, and I think that was what caused the clash between us; a clash that grew and grew until it sparked a war.
I was just beginning my life, a brand new high schooler. I never had a job. I never had any real responsibilities. I never had a boyfriend, minus some kid named T. J. that I dated for a week in 5th grade; and dating in 5th grade consisted of not talking at all and hiding from eachother. I never had a true boyfriend. I wasn’t even sure that I wanted one. All of the other girls fretted about boys, all the time. I didn’t understand. I knew that I wanted to be in a relationship and I wanted to get married one day, but I didn’t understand their rush. “You don’t have that much time, you know, before you have to settle down. You need to date as many guys as you can so that you can find out which type you like!” Nina, Jenny’s best friend, told me once.
I wanted to respond to her with, “No, Nina. You don’t need to do that. You’re just a slut.”
But, I digress.
“I just hope this math class is better than the one at my old school,” you said. It’s funny how much of this conversation I remember. Isn’t it weird how certain things just stick in your mind forever? I remember noticing your handwriting. You wrote the date at the top of your paper; the first piece in your new notebook. Your 0’s were like little squares instead of circles and you drew long, dark slashes that seperated the month, day, and year. I remember how you drummed your fingers along to the beat I was banging out with my pencil. When you started to do so, I stopped, a little stunned. You kept going though, just drumming by yourself. You were totally into it too. I remember how you wore big, black sneakers and you kicked against the legs of the desk. You didn’t just push your feet up against them, or tap on them lightly. You kicked at them, hard. Almost like how you kicked at my shins that time you saw me out with Eric, only before finding out he was my cousin. Maybe, I should have taken this as a warning; but, I was only extremely enthralled by it.
“What happened at your old school?”
“Oh, it was just crazy. We were a bunch of crazy city kids and we just wanted to get the hell out of there. Having math last period is the worst, especially when everyone gets really restless,” you murmered, so nonchalantly. City kids? My mind wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, before deciding that you came from Los Angelos, where you were formally a movie star, and male model. It was very dissapointing to find out
later that you were actually from Oklahoma and just mentioned the city to try to impress me. Good job, Adam. Gold stars for you; you did.
It was just then that I realized we were still in math class. It was just then when I realized my teacher, whatever her name was, was explaining her ground rules and demonstating some of the things we’d be learning in Algebra 1. That was how distracted you made me. You, some new fantasy boy, distracted me from something that was real; math class. You distracted me from the truth too many other times as well; too many to count on my fingers, too many to count on the fingers of everyone in that class. When I was around you I became dazed and helpless; falling into trap after trap, without anyone there to save me.

There’s one thing that you still don’t know about me, Adam. No, It’s not some
crazy, scandelous secret. Don’t even pretend that you weren’t thinking it was. The thing you don’t know about me is that I loved playing guitar. Not anymore, of course, but before you came along, it was the thing I was most passionate about.
Every morning, I’d shut my alarm clock off with a slap of my palm, then reach to the left of my bed where I kept my guitar. I’d slide it up on top of me and run my hand across the surface. I traced the dent made when I was 7 and thought it would be cool to slam it against the ground like they did on some Spongebob episode. I’d shake it back and forth, and hear a familiar jingle. I once had dropped a pick in there and spent the entire summer after 5th grade trying to get it out. When anyone came over our house, before they could even sit down and get comfortable, I’d ask them if they could try getting the pick out from the inside. I would begin every day with a gentle strum, just running my fingers over the strings once. It was ruitine, a ritual almost.
One time my older brother, Derek, was trying to make something to eat after he came home late at night, and started a fire. The smoke alarms started going off and my Mom ran up to my room and snatched me off my bed and pulled me outside, screaming and crying. My Dad rushed Derek out of the house and then went to get my younger brother, Chris, who was only a baby at the time. I managed to grab my guitar before we left, just in case anything major happened; but the house was fine. The fire was put out quickly and nothing got ruined. I wasn’t fine, though. I sat outside and cried for the whole next day. I didn’t get to strum my guitar before I left my bed, and I was so upset about that. Of course, I was only 6 or so, but it was a big deal to me; a moment I’ll never forget. That’s when I realized how important my guitar was to me.
I would bring it everywhere I went. I even had a nice little pink strap that I could attatch to it so it would drape over my body and I could walk around while playing. I wasn’t good at all, not for a while. I probably annoyed everyone I knew. I obnoxiously attempted playing everywhere I went. I’d smack my hand against the strings, placing my fingers on random frets and say I was playing the latest Destiny’s Child song. Oh my. I wish I could appoligize to anyone who had to hear that.
Then, I grew up. In 6th grade, I began taking guitar lessons during my school’s music class. Mr. Dwell was my teacher; well he was everyone’s teacher. There was only one music class in 6th grade, and ever student had to take a music elective. It was designed so that we were allowed to pick whatever type of music we were interested in and get lessons for it. Some kids sang, others would play the violin or the drums. I automatically picked the guitar, though. In 7th grade, when we were allowed to take any elective we wanted, all the other kids went off to Home Economics so that they could cook food. That was the popular choice. I went back to music, though. I started becoming really serious with it, and I loved having Mr. Dwell as a teacher.
“Mr. Dwell is my father. He’s retired and living in Florida right now. I’m not Mr. Dwell. My name is Rob,” he told me, during the first class of 6th grade. I nervously bopped my head up and down, my eyes peering out from under my light brown bangs. “You guys all like music, right?” he asked. The whole class nodded just as anxiously as I did. “What’s your favorite kind of music?”
“The stuff they play on the radio,” Lexi Stewart answered.
“Rap,” some chubby kid replied.
“You guys don’t actually like music. You’re tricking yourself into thinking you
do.” Rob said. Lexi looked over at me and raised her eyebrows. I shrugged. Lexi was my best friend back then. Sleepovers, secrets, partners for every school project; the whole shabang. We were exactly the same. We loved all the same things and did all the same thing. We got put in the same classes with eachother every year and we were the closest two girls in our whole grade. There was never just a “Samantha James” or a “Lexi Stewart.” It was always “Samantha James and Lexi Stewart.” Adam, you probably never hear me talk about Lexi. You know who she is though, right? She’s the blonde one that is Vice President of student council, a great soccer player, and wins that local spelling bee every year. You probably see her face plastered all over the school paper. She’s really pretty; big green eyes and her hair always long and shiny. I guess thats another thing you didn’t know about me; that I used to be such good friends with her. We just drifted apart though. I got really into playing guitar, and forgot all about school. Soon, I was failing all my classes, or just coasting by, and she just kept getting smarter. After a while, she was taking classes 2 or 3 grades above the ones that I was taking. Our differences became overwhelming and the only things we had in common were the memories we shared as children. I guess the whole thing was just another way to back up the fact that I loved guitar. I gave up my best friend and my entire academic career for it. It really was the thing that meant most to me.
Anyway, Rob said this the very first day I met him. He said, “You have to dig deep through music. You need to search through those random CD’s that they keep in the back of the store. You need to find undiscovered artists online. You have to listen to weird genres that you didn’t even know existed. You have to listen to old music, from centuries ago. You have to listen to stuff that just came out an hour ago. Until you do
that, you don’t truly like music.” We all just stood there, with wide eyes, gaping at him. Believe me, Adam. The moment was as weird as it sounds. Rob stared at us for a few minutes, his dark eyes squinting into each of ours, like he had to take an evaluation of each of us before he started teaching. His salt and pepper colored hair made him look really old, but he was probably only 30. We all had a certain level of respect for him, from that very first day. So, even though his whole little theory seemed ridiculous and random, we all gave it a shot. Or, at least, Lexi and I did.
We spent every free moment we had listen to weird music, even if we hated it. He was right, though. There were a lot of songs that I loved. They were mostly those kind of songs that you can feel. The singer’s voice cuts through your bones and makes you fall to pieces. The drums sound like a steady heartbeat. Crazy electric guitars shrill passed your ears and echo in your brain days later. There are those love songs that make you melt, because you can really feel their passion. There are those songs that really upset you, because the singer pours out their feelings. There was just so much music had to offer. Once I started delving into it, I couldn’t stop. All I wanted to do was explore music.
I still wasn’t the most promising guitar student. Rob even told me. “You could use a lot more practice,” he said, pursing his lips.
“A lot?”
“Well, yeah. Your chords sound sloppy. You don’t pick up material quickly. You can barely read music!” he told me. That girl, Brianna Reynolds, giggled from behind me. I shot her a glare. She clamped her hand over mouth and stared down at her own guitar. I was really pissed off at the time. Both Rob and her really embarassed me. It only made me more determined to become a better player. I’d stay up all hours of the night studying out of music theory books that I got from the library. I’d hunch over them into the really late hours of the night. My Mom would come into my room and ask me why I was up so late. I’d simply shake my head and flip to the next page. If I wasn’t reaching my full potention as a guitar player, I knew that I had to.
I totally freaked out when I met you. You were wearing that Paramore shirt the first day I talked to you, and I decided I would wear mine the next day, to spark a conversation. It worked.
“You like Paramore?” you asked, picking at your pencil eraser. The rest of the class filed in, ready to actually start learning some math. I had bigger plans, though. I wanted to get you to like me.
“Yeah, I love them. I saw them in concert over the summer!” I said, smiling widely, and pointing at the tour dates listed on the back of the shirt.
“Seriously? That must have been a freakin’ good show. Did they do ‘Emergency’ live?” You asked, seeming legitimately interested. I beamed. I was probably glowing like Jenny Lynch does when she spots a new boy to stalk. Emergency was one of my favorite Paramore songs. I even knew how to play it on guitar, or I thought I did.
“Mhm. It was one of the best ones they did!”
“My cousin is really good friends with the drummer. He told me that he could get a copy of their new album early!”
“Oh my god. Really?”
“Yeah. You could come over my place and listen to it with me when I get it,” you said. My heart dropped. I hadn’t felt so happy in a really long time. I waited patiently for weeks. All I wanted was for your cousin to get that album for you. I wanted to hang out with you so badly. After a while, I assumed you had forgotten about the whole thing. I was completely surprised when you passed me a note one day when we were learning the quadratic formula. I remember it perfectly. Just a sheet of paper torn from your notebook, but it meant so much to me. “I got the Paramore album! Come over after school?” you scribbled, your handwriting as intriguing as yourself. I nodded, enthusiastically, and you smiled back.
So, Adam? When you invited me over that day, did you know that you were going to hurt me for the first time? Was I the first girl you did this too, or were there ones before me? You’re probably racking your brain, trying to remember what exactly you did to me that day. It wasn’t anything like what you were doing right before we broke up. You didn’t do anything that left bruises on my body. It broke me apart completely though. Remember now? Of course not. I acted like it didn’t matter to me. You probably didn’t even notice you were doing it.
I brought my guitar with me when I went over your house after school. I rang your doorbell and your older brother opened the door. “You must be Samantha,” Dan mumbled, rolling his eyes, and then pointing toward your room at the top of the staircase. I took a deep breath and trudged up there, gripping my guitarcase with both hands, running my thumb over the zipper several times. I was about the twist the doorknob when you opened it yourself. You looked so friendly, and welcoming. All my nerves dissapeared and I walked in.
“Is that a guitar?” you said. You were interested, I could tell.
“Yeah! I wanted to play a Paramore song for you. Didn’t you say Emerency was your favorite?”
“Mhm. I love that one!” you replied, sitting down on your bed, the brown comforter neatly pulled over it, like it was just made. I don’t know why, but I really liked that. You cleaned up for me. It made me feel important. No matter how much trouble we got into, all the years we were dating, that was one little thing that I never got tired of. It always impressed me. Thats such a great feeling, to know that someone wants to impress you. I wish you knew how much I tried to impress you, that first day.
I pulled out my guitar, and strummed the first few notes. I kept my eyes locked on the floor, studying the navy blue rug that was on your floor like it was the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. I stumbled through the first verse, and then played the chorus as loud as I could. I thought it was great. It probably wasn’t, but I thought it
was. That was what mattered. So, when you snickered, and I looked up and you had a little smirk on your face, my heart skipped a beat. My guitar pick ran across the strings one more time and then fell to the floor.
“What?” I said, my eyebrows threading. I even turned around to make sure there wasn’t anything hysterically funny behind me. That was how pathetic I was. I was so naive and innocent. I was so whole and untouched by the pain that you were later bring me.
“You’re kidding me, Samantha, right?” you snorted. Your tone was diffferent than the smooth one you used in school. It was like you were a completely different person, a bully almost. “Do you really think you’re good?”
“I mean... I guess so,” I mumbled, on the verge of tears. You laughed aloud, again. Then, pulled the album from out of a desk drawer and slid it into your computer to start playing it. I shut my guitar case and sat down next to you. You acted like what you just said to me was no big deal, so I tried to get myself to believe that you were kidding. Then, I decided that you weren’t, and got really mad. Then, I realized how much I liked you. You were the first guy that I really had feelings for. I had such a waterfall of mixed emotions. It was something so new to me; to be so openly put down. I didn’t know how to deal with it at all. So, I just took it down like some pill I had to swallow. I decided that maybe it was best that you told me, instead of someone else. When I got home, I put my guitar under my bed and it never moved from that very spot.
Do you remember this at all? It was a simple little stab, but it made me give up something that I loved more than anything in the world. When things, just recently, got out of hand, I went to get advice from the guidance counselor at school. I couldn’t get myself to tell her everything, but I was able to pick up a pamphlet on abusive relationships. Sure enough, that entire first incident is counted as abuse. The very first column said that typical abusers put down their victims first, before laying a hand on them. They’ll often tell them what they can and can not do.
You might think that I’m blowing this entire thing out of proportion, since it’s nothing compared to what you would do to me in recent years. It was simply just a little laugh at my guitar playing skills. That was it. The problem is, Adam, that one spark starts a fire. Since I sucked up my tears and convinced myself that what you did didn’t hurt me, it enabled you to hurt me more. What made you think it was okay to say that to me? I’m still wondering. Did someone tell you when you were little that it’s perfectly polite to tell girls that they aren’t good at something? What exactly gave you the power to do that? Let me tell you, Adam. That little remark that you made that day crushed me. I had to rebuild myself completely. Soon, those remarks got so tedius, that I became completely numb to them; and that really scared me. That’s when I knew that things were really going wrong.

You were always so controlling over who I was with. I thought it was absolutely
adorable at first, how you wanted me all to yourself. It became overwhelming, though. I had to go behind your back to talk to my own family. Seriously, Adam? What was the point of you getting angry at me for hanging out with my family once in a while? I would spend all day with you, and you’d never want me to leave. You’d get so upset if I answered a phone call from my Dad, while I was with you. It wasn’t like I was calling up another guy and leaving you to go out with him! I was talking to my own father. You cut me off from everyone in my life, almost making it impossible for me to get help.
My grandparents are huge gameshow people. Every night, after dinner, they cuddle up on the couch, munching on my Grandma’s homemade chocolate chip cookies, and watch the latest Jeapordy or Wheel of Fortune. I’d join them whenever I was over. It was kind of a tradition. Even when they had company over, they couldn’t miss whatever game show was on that day. My favorite was Who Wants to be a Millionare. I liked it best because when the contestant got stuck, they could always phone a friend. I vowed to my grandparents that if I ever went on a game show, it would be Who Wants to be a Millionare, and I would phone one of them if I ever needed help. It was almost like you used up that option, and I was stuck answering the question all on my own. I use this analogy all the time when I talk about our relationship. Did you do it on purpose? Was this some kind of strategy to get me to be completely helpless? After a while, I had no one left; not a single friend to phone.
It wasn’t just your fault. I’m not sure if I changed or something, but none of them were interested in me anymore. Believe me, I did try to reach of for help. Even after that very first day at your house, I tried to tell my friend, Hannah.
“So, he said your guitar playing sucks?” she said, digging her hand in a bag of potato chips. We were lunch friends. That was it. It was shortly after things with Lexi fell through, and I was so wary about my friendships. I didn’t think I was ready to really become best friends with anyone. We sat together and would talk about stupid things that didn’t really mean anything. She wasn’t anywhere near the type of friends I had with Lexi, but at least I had someone to sit with and be with. I thought, maybe, if I told her something like this, that we could start sharing secrets and talking about more interesting things. It didn’t work out well, though.
“Yeah.”
“Well, does it?” she replied. I shrugged and she quickly changed the subject, telling me about the annoying project she had for biology. I sighed, heavily.
I didn’t even know what I wanted to hear from her, but that wasn’t it. I almost wanted her to tell me, “Oh! That’s the first sign you see in an abusive relationship! Taunting and teasing your partner is frowned upon!” Of course, once you started hitting me, I was fully aware the relationship was an abusive one. But, of course, I didn’t reach out to anyone then. I just fell and fell, thinking that someone would catch me, but they never did.
Shall we take a little trip down memory lane, Adam? Remember that time we went
ice skating? I think it was during 9th grade, still, right? Out of all the times you physically hurt me, that one stood out a lot. It was one of the most extreme times, one of the times that I actually had multiple scars and bruises to cover up and hide from people. Oh, come on, Adam. You know you want to hear all about that day! It must of been one of your favorites. You liked to see me squirm and cry in pain, right? I bet you found so much amusement in seeing my blood and tears collect on my chin and drip to puddles on the floor.
I thought it was going to be so romantic. I was so head over heels in love with you. That first year of dating you was great, because for every bad time we had, there was a handful of amazing times. You were so witty and different and cool. I felt proud being around you. I wasn’t ever embarrased to be with you. It was always a good feeling to step out with you, as my boyfriend. We’d do everything together. We laughed a lot, and joked a lot. We could talk about anything, and we were into all the same things. So, before every date, I mentally prepared myself for it to be a fun day.
“Samantha!” you called as I walked through the door of the ice skating arena, my skates slung over my right shoulder. You were genuinely happy to see me. I felt so good inside, because, not only was I prepared for a fun night, but it looked like it would actually be one. I ran over and hugged you, breathing in the heavy aroma of the cologne you’d always splash all over yourself. You always had on a little too much, but I didn’t even mind. It smelled like you and I liked you.
We skated around the rink for about an hour, joyfully. We made up some silly game, something we always used to do. Remember those?
“I bet you his name is Kyle,” you said, pointing at a Dad, helping a little girl make her way across the rink for what looked to be her first time skating.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. He’s a plumber. Divorced. Single father. Raising that one, and two others, who are older. He loves coming here, and wants his daughter to get into skating too,” you said, grinning, your eyes locked on ‘Kyle.’ It seemed like a funny game, to make up a whole life story for someone. You would always come up with clever things, like that. Our dates never got awkward, thats for sure. That was one thing I still love about you. You could turn any boring situation into an exciting one.
I pointed to a couple of girls across the way. They all were wearing the same skinny jeans and hoodies, cell phones in their hands. One was even texting while she was skating. “Their names are Mackenzie, Jenna, and Brianna. They’re in 6th grade. Best friends. They think they’re really cool, because they can go out without their parents now. That one texting is talking to her boyfriend. They’ve been going out for a whole week. It’s Facebook official,” I said. You laughed. Lexi Stewart and I were both those kinds of girls, before music completely consumed my life. I think everyone goes through that stage. It’s just part of growing up, I guess. I was only in 9th grade when all this happened, though, and I couldn’t imagine ‘Mackenzie, Jenna, and Brianna,’ going
through what I had to go through with you. That was why it was so strange. I was only 14; just a child! It wasn’t even fair, what you put me through.
I pointed to another person. An attractive guy, probably a senior. “His name is Joe.” I began.
“Why did you pick him?”
“What?”
“Why were you looking at him?”
I stammered. You placed your hand on the small of my back and pushed me
toward the wall of the rink. People skidded by us, glancing at us from the corners of their eyes. ‘Mackenzie, Jenna, and Brianna’ looked up from their texts for a minute. Your voice was loud and raised. I guess you, then, realized that we were in a public place.
“Get off the rink. I need to talk to you,” you barked at me, your eyes narrowing slowly. This wasn’t the first time you hurt me, so I’d seen that look before. I knew what was coming for me. The first time it happened, it was completely unexpected. My jaw dropped and I just stood there, stunned for a while. I cried a lot, then brushed it off. After that, each time you did it, it just became more normal. I was starting to not think anything of a little shove or a slap across the face. So, I skated, as fast as I could to the exit of the rink, keeping my eyes focused in front of me. You kept shoving me. Did you realize that every single jab in the back made a few tears spring from the corner of my eyes? I blinked a million times until I felt stoic and emotionless. That was exactly how I wanted to get before you hit me. That was the best way to be; so guarded and safe.
You pushed me right into the ladies restroom. You didn’t even think twice about it, just strolled right in there, past a series of open stalls, and you grabbed me by the shoulders and through me against the wall. My head bumped into the papertowel dispenser and I felt dizzy. I slid down to the floor, where I tried to balance myself. I kept blacking out. Blurry images of your angry face flashed between dark stills behind my eyelids. You pulled your foot back and kicked me hard in the stomach like you would punt a soccer ball. I grasped it, tightly, and coughed. It felt like my coughs were echoing all over the world, bouncing off the wall of this one little bathroom and screaming through the air; a plea for help. You kicked me again. This time I tried, unsuccessfully to shield myself with my arm. Your sneaker collided with my elbow, and twisted my whole arm over. I cried, blacking out completely for a moment. I was so afraid of what was coming next. Soon, you arms were back on my shoulders, and you pulled me forward, like I was some wind up toy, and you were ready to watch me race across the room. You let me go, and I sprang back against the wall. That was when the most pain came. The back of my head started bleeding, a lot. The blood felt warm and clammy running down the back of my neck. I started to scream, but you cupped your hand around my mouth. My tears spilled over your fingers and puddled on the bathroom’s tiles.
It was so messy; so absolutely disgusting. I’ve never even told anyone about it, Adam. What a big, nasty secret to keep, but I did it. After a good 5 minutes of you
yelling at me about how I shouldn’t be looking at other guys if I wanted you and I to remain a thing, you finally let go of my mouth. Then, you stepped back and just studied me. I stared at you back, moaning in pain. Thank god that nobody came into the bathroom at that moment, because the entire scene was heartwrenching. It sickens me to this day that I just sat there, staring at you, contemplating whether or not I wanted you still. I literally sat there covered in my own blood and tears and wondered whether or not you were worth all this, like you were something that special. Nobody is worth that, not even if it was the best guy to walk the planet. Yet, I still sat there thinking about it.
“Samantha. Oh my god. You have to forgive me. It freaked me out that I might loose you. I love you so much, and that can’t happen! I’m so sorry! I’ll take you to the hospital right now. I promise, you’ll be okay,” you said, curling up next to me, kissing my forehead lightly. I nodded, and climbed into your arms. I don’t know why, but your appoligies got me everytime. You pulled my sweatshirt’s hood over my head and wiped up the blood that was on the floor. Then, you just walked me out like what happened in there was something that happens every time you go ice skating. The most awful thing about abuse is how secretive it is and how easy it can be covered up. We walked out of that ice skating rink all nonchalantly, and not one person in the place noticed a thing. All those people were still going about their lives, whether it was those three 7th graders texting their boyfriends, or that Dad with his daughter, or even the cute senior. They didn’t even notice. It was the worst feeling I’ve ever felt. It made me feel so, so alone.
You brought me to the hospital and made up some stupid story about how I hit my head or something. I don’t even remember. I just remember the lies slipping from your lips like it was something you do with the effort someone would put forth to blink or breath. I just stood there nodding. My parents didn’t even question the story we made up, and went on and on about how much of a hero you were for helping me and getting me to the hospital. I almost wanted to laugh. Only you, Adam. You’re the only one who could get out of such a horrendous situation so perfectly.
Well, I’m sure you loved reliving that moment. I feel like I’ve overcome a lot, after I broke up with you. But, I still don’t understand it. Why, exactly? Why did you do things like that? All I did was look at some random kid. Did that really mean that much to you? You knew that I liked you, too! It’s all just a bunch of puzzle pieces that don’t fit together for me. I never really, ever, got a clear understanding of what was going through your mind every time you would hurt me. When you think about all the times you hurt me, do you regret it all, like you say? Why did you keep doing it, then? That’s all I want to know.
I guess people can never really understand others. I think I expected too much from other people. I expected them to just know that I was hurting inside. I expected them to fix it for me. I expected them to make everything better again, without even
telling them about it. That’s probably my biggest regret; if only I phoned a friend, then maybe I could have became a millionare.

I was always kind of inconsolable. You know that. I’m not some sort of emotional, vulnerable girl. I close myself off easily. In all the years we dated, I don’t think we ever really had a single deep conversation. This was definitely a problem, especially when it came to our relationship. Personally, I don’t believe that the mess we got ourselves into was entirely your fault. It fell heavily on me, as well. Except, I blame it all on someone entirely different; my mother.
Lisa James. You don’t know her very well, because I never really wanted you involved in my family life. I was nervous that an incident would happen in front of my parents, and I really didn’t want them involved in it. You’ve seen her a few times, though. Right? She’s one of those kind of people that intimidates anyone she’s in the same room as. She’s attention demanding, not only in appearance, but in persona. She’s probably the tallest woman that I know, towering over anyone who comes in contact with her, including most men. She has piercing green eyes, the same color as mine. Her eyes were different, though. Mine always looked drained and sullen, while her’s almost radiated light out of them. Her hair was a beautiful collage of brown with blonde highlights. Each strand swooped down, framing her face. She got her hair cut and maintaned way too often. It was never too long, and there was never a single split end. Her nose was perfectly straight, turning up ever so slightly at the end. It gave off that snobby vibe that made most people swear she had plastic surgery. She didn’t. Her lips were always pursed together, and she would rarely genuinely smile; just this big, sappy, fake one that she would put on whenever she picked up a new guy.
Yes. My Mom was cheater. She believed that we all weren’t aware, but we were; myself, my brothers, and even my Dad. We’ve caught her in the act so many times, as she was extremely obvious about it. She may have thought she was being sly with it, but she was a hot mess. She wasn’t that easy to figure out. My Dad was hit hard the first time. He was head over heels in love with her; still is. Their marriage seemed like your typical, corny, TV movie love story. He’s a complete nerd, not that attractive, and seriously is obsessed with putting together model airplanes. He’s lovable, though; a big teddy bear. We were really close growing up, even though we’re nothing alike. He’s really warm and friendly, and, obviously, I’m not too social. I think we needed eachother. We patched eachother up in places that we couldn’t tend to ourselves. Anyway, he, being the exact opposite of me, is extremely emotional and vulnerable. The first time we saw my Mom coming home late at night with a different man, kissing him goodbye through the foggy front window of his SUV, we sat in my room together and cried for hours. She didn’t even notice, suspected that nobody saw. I told my father to leave her, that my brothers and I would be okay. I told him that he deserved a lot better than her. Even though she was my mother, and I was supposed to love her
unconditionally, all I could feel was this overwhelming hatred for her.
It still sends chills creeping up my spine when I think of my Dad’s reaction that
day. He was so crushed, falling asleep with his face bobbing in a pool of tears. The next morning, though, he went right back to her, almost like everything that happened the night before was all just some stupid nightmare. I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even bring it up. After breakfast, I pulled him away from her, clutching onto his hand and squeezing it. That was our secret sign that we did when we needed to confide something important in eachother. He squeezed back, even tighter than I did, and walked me down the hall.
“Dad? You’re not going to say anything?” I said, threading my eyebrows. I was in 8th grade, so it was right before I met you. Little did I know the feeling that you got when you were in a dysfunctional relationship.
“I can’t.”
“Why?” my voice urgent and shaking.
“Samantha. Listen to me. You can’t say anything to her. I don’t want her to know
we saw her. It’s fine. I’m fine. I promise,” he said, his eyes dilated. My father wasn’t the most masqueline person around, but seeing him act like that wasn’t something I normally saw. It was so weird to see him crying. He was the father; he glue that was supposed to be holding our family together. It was painstaking to see him trying so hard to do so. He really felt like he needed her that much.
So, the cheating was a secret, for a while, just between my Dad and I. He kept acting like it wasn’t bothering him at all, and my Mom wasn’t actually right on his doorstep, making out with another man. I saw him, though. Every night that she wasn’t home, he would make himselff a cup of coffee, and sit by the big window in our living room until she came. She wasn’t even cheating with the same man. It was a different
guy every time, some old enough to be her father, and some only a few years older than me. There were tall men, her height and there were men that looked half the size of her. There were ones men that looked like serious athletes, and ones that looked scarily like my own father. Those were the ones that really bothered him the most. When those men pulled up to our driveway to pick her up for a date, he’d clutch his stomach. “I’m going to get coffee with Linda from work! Love you!” my mother would screetch, staring directly at him, then over at the window to double check that the blinds were arranged just the right way, so that we wouldn’t be able to see the driveway. My father would give a slight wave, with one hand, keeping the other on his stomach. It was bad enough that she wasn’t being faithful to him, but it was like she literally went out and replaced him with a nice, newer, younger version of himselff. We’d exchange a quick glance every time this certain situation would happen, but he’d look away, embarassed and ashamed. I exchange the same glances with him now, when someone brings up you. If I believed I knew what to do in the wrong kind of relationship then, how come I didn’t know what to do when I was stuck with you?
Anyway, not only did my Mom incorporate dysfunctional relationships into my life so early, we also didn’t have a good relationship ourselves. She’d judge me a lot. It was almost like she believed our family was supposed to leave behind some legacy, and I wasn’t following her footsteps and being the perfection that is Karen James. You know how I am, Adam. I’m kind of a slacker, honestly. I’m not a hundred percent focused on school and friendships. I don’t care much about any extracurricular stuff, especially after I gave up guitar. I don’t even put work into my appearance. That bothered her the most; or so it seemed. She’d sneer at me every morning when I walked down. She’d sneer at my outfit, my makeup, my hair; whatever. She’d make some sarcastic remark and beg me to put on something else. I’d shrug it off like it didn’t bother me, same as I’d shrug off your early remarks. It dug down into me, though.
It was the worst feeling in the world when it seemed like she didn’t approve of me. Even when I didn’t approve of her, because of what she was putting my Dad through, I always wanted her to compliment me and congratulate me. I wanted a mother like my friend’s mothers. I’d bring home a grade that I thought was good, from school. It would always be an 80% or something, because I’m not that smart. Instead of being happy for me that I passed and actually got something decent, she’d roll her eyes and tell me that I could do way better. If I asked her how work was, she’d flip her hair over her shoulder and act like I wasn’t even good enough to hear about how she was doing. It was all so ridiculous. It made me feel so low about myself. I knew that I wasn’t perfect like her. I didn’t care that I wasn’t perfect like her. I just wanted to be the best that I could be. She didn’t seem to think that was the right goal to set myself, though.
I know blaming other people for something that happened between you and I is kind of childish, but I can’t help it. My mother taught me the wrong ways to be in a relationship, whether it was one with someone else, or one with myself. She wanted me to live up to her expectations, and I did, which sickened me. During one of our talks, back then, my Dad told me that he wished he never got involved with her. “I wish I never even met her. It would have saved me a lot of trouble, because now all I want to do is run right back to her, when she does something I don’t like. I wish I could have saved you from her. You and your brothers shouldn’t have had to grow in such a disgusting household. I can never appoligize enough. It’s all my fault,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. I didn’t know what to respond with. I didn’t want to tell him that it was okay, because it wasn’t. Their relationship, and just my mom in general ruined my entire childhood. So, I just squeezed my arms around his neck and took deep breaths. We just stood there, interlaced, until I vowed to him that I would never, under any circumstance, get involved in a bad relationship. He nodded, kissing my forehead, before telling me to go to sleep, so that he could sit by the window and wait for my Mom to come home from being with whatever guy she was with, so that he could be with her.
Look where I ended up; in a relationship with you. I had grown so accustomed to
watching my Dad squirm under my Mom’s grasp, that it became so normal to me. I never really tell anyone what goes on in my family, because, quite frankly, it’s crazy. There will be stories in the news and what not about abusive relationships like ours, but you never hear about a spouse knowing that their partner is cheating and remaining with them. It doesn’t even make sense, but it was going on, and it messed me up so much. I was so used to seeing my role model, my father, continuously want her approval, that I seeked it too, even though I never liked what she had to say. All of these factors contributed to the way I was; hard. I wasn’t going to let anyone in. I wasn’t going to let anyone know what I was feeling, and I wasn’t going to do anything about it myself. I didn’t feel important enough too. I felt lesser than you, Adam. I felt the same way my father felt with my mother. After all those years of not understanding his point of view, I finally got it. I guess it’s just one of those things that is hard to explain unless you are in the same position.
Is that what being an abuser is like, Adam? Would you and my Mom be able to get together and discuss how you feel when your hurting someone you love? Is there really some reason that you guys do it? I mean, I know it’s for control, or at least thats what it said in my pamphlets in the guidance office. Do you have some intense backstory? Is there something that happened once, that caused you to become an abuser? From what I could tell, it didn’t look like your parents abused you. It didn’t even look like your family was messed up in any way. Just a happy couple, with two sons; the picture perfect family. I guess my own family could have looked perfect, if some outsider saw us, driving to our favorite restaurant for dinner, or something. My beautiful Mom with her condicending smile would probably holding my Dad’s hand with such false gentleness that it would look like she would never even leave his side. He’d be in the passenger seat, beaming a million dollar smile, so happy to have his dream woman. I’d be in the backseat, hiding my pain as I do. My two brothers would have looked like any other kids. It’s so strange how someone could get such a decieving impression of us. I guess that truly shows how you never can understand what anyone is going through. Believe me, Adam. I’m trying to be as sympathetic as I can to a guy who made me cry more tears than anyone else in my life. I’m trying to get why you would do such a thing. I’m really trying. It’s just so hard.
For a long time, I believed that you did it because you loved me so much. I figured that you couldn’t bare to see me go anywhere. I made up scenarios in my head in which you couldn’t fall asleep at night, because you were so terribly frightened that I would run off to another guy. I thought that you believed you needed to keep a firm handle on me so that you wouldn’t turn out like my father. Then, I went through a phase where I really thought you hated me. I thought you just wanted to get rid of me, make our relationship so awful that I would leave it. You couldn’t stand me, and just didn’t want to break my heart. It was so crazy that I sat there making up excuses for you. I really should have been sitting there thinking of ways to get out. I guess nobody will understand that feeling, though, unless they’ve been in the same situation.

Sometimes, I felt like it was selfish to bring up our relationship around other people. Everyone had they’re problems, or so it seemed. Mr. Dwell would have us do projects, back when I was in his class, on the love lifes of famous singers. It seemed like the most random thing at the time. We all giggled when he announced it, assuming he was joking, but Mr. Dwell always had something up his sleeve. It was actually one of the school lessons that stuck with me the most.
“Pick 3 songs by any mainstream artist or band that sings about love. Print out the lyrics and comb through them. Highlight lines that stick out to you. Listen to how the singer delivers those lines. Do they sound pained? Do they sound happy? Find out. Then, act like a news reporter and write an article about their love life,” I remember Mr. Dwell saying, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He lifted one and flexed his index fingers toward a row of computers in the back of the room. “Now, go research.”
One of the boys next to me called out, “How does this help us learn guitar?” He glanced longingly at his.
“Well, doesn’t a guitar make music?” Mr. Dwell said, threading his eyebrows and puzzling us all.
“Uh huh,” the boy replied.
“What is music?” Mr. Dwell asked, another one of his famous questions. They’d always result in some big life lesson or something. I tried to stay away from answering them, but I loved hearing what he had to say. Wise words floated from the man’s mouth like a waterfall. “Music is not just instruments and singing. It’s the emotion behind it too. The words matter. If you don’t understand what the piece you’re playing is about, there is no way you could ever sell it. The greatest artists are the ones that let all their emotions out into their songs. The greatest artists are the ones that write their own songs.” He went on and on. I mentally ran through some of my favorite singers, wondering what they were going through. It was hard for me to relate at the time, since I had never been in a relationship. I still found it interesting, though.
After, Mr. Dwell was done with his spiel, I wandered back to the computers with Lexi and watched her type in various songs by Mariah Carey. Lexi and I usually marveled at her big voice, her high notes, and her phenominal stage presence. I never really looked at what she was saying in her songs, though. I just thought it was music, nothing that really mattered. However, sooner or later, Lexi held a marked up copy of “Don’t Forget About Us,” between her fingers. I remember seeing the line, “Now every time I see you, I pretend I’m fine,” masked under a streak of pink highlighter. A little farther down on the printout was another line, “And she’s got your head all messed up now. That’s the trickery.” I thought about those two; a lot, actually. I didn’t know much about love, but I understood that Mariah was going through a tough breakup. She probably still loved the guy, but he moved right on to somebody else. She never
wanted to forget all the great things they did together, but he didn’t have a care in the world. This bothered me. It gave me tons of negative feelings about love. I knew that most relationships end. I pictured myself getting broken up with, and having to deal with these feelings like Mariah Carey. It was so rough for me, though. It made me sort of paranoid. I never wanted the situation to happen to me.
When Mr. Dwell called us all back to our seats, we gathered around and read out our lyrics. I learned about so many singers that had these horrible experiences with love. It made me realize how difficult of a subject it is. It wasn’t all “happily ever after” like in Disney Movies. That was my real first exposure to the harder side of love; the side that was jagged around the edges and didn’t feel comfortable and right.
So, Adam, when things started getting bad with you, it almost seemed predictable. I didn’t talk about you much at all, actually. I wouldn’t even tell anybody if you did something really adorable. I wouldn’t tell anyone in was our anniversary, or your birthday. I would keep it all underwraps, like you were my own little secret; my own joy and my own problem. It was selfish of me to talk about my own relationship all the time when everyone I knew was struggling with their own. You don’t see too many happy people these days, in general. It’s because we are all bogged down by news of horrible things, as if we don’t all have our own stresses.

You were the talk of the school through those first few months after you moved here. You had something that all of the other freshmen boys didn’t have and everyone was infatuated by you. You’d roam the halls with fierce, piercing eyes. You always looked on the edge about something. You didn’t even glance at the girls fawning over you, just strided past them like they were pieces of furniture. The way you walked interested me, particularly. It was almost like you were always in a hurry, always running away from something. People rarely saw kids darting to their english class, so it was strange to all of us. It made people talk about you; talk about you a lot.
New kids are always a gossip target. A lot of the rumors that spread around like an epidemic were crazy things. They were obviously made up. One girl told me that you had to change schools because you killed someone in your old town and were running from the cops. She said you changed your name, pretended you were a high school student and were still in hiding. How insane is that? It was right after that first time I went to your house, though, that I heard something new. This rumor specifically caught my attention, like the person who told me it had a giant red flag billowing overhead. It was this guy, Anthony, on my bus. He dashed on one day, pushing past the middle schoolers that crowded up the front rows of seats and made his way to the rest of the freshmen. We all popped out our heads and listened intently as he rambled about what he saw.
“You know that new kid?” Anthony said, a bead of sweat, or maybe a tear, rolling down his cheek. Everyone nodded.
“Adam,” I said, one of the first times I remembered saying your name out loud. I liked the way it sounded. I liked the way it felt on the tip of my tounge. Whatever it was about it felt just right, and it comforted me.
Anthony ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, that was messy and matted against his forehead. He was a typical freshman boy. He paid no attention to his appearance, just threw on a pair of basketball shorts and a tshirt. “Yeah, him. As I was walking to the bus stop, I passed his house, I guess. He was outside and was mowing the lawn or something. I stopped and asked him why he was doing that before school. He told me that his Dad was just really strict,” he spit out, then took a deep breath. “All of a sudden, though, the front door flings open, and this man comes out.”
“Was it his Dad?” I asked.
“I think so. He started screaming at Adam to get back to work. When Adam turned back to me to wave goodbye, his Dad got really angry and ran over and punched him in the jaw. It was freaking scary. You guys, I don’t even know what just happened. I got the hell out of there,” Anthony ranted. He took several more deep breaths. I could tell by the fear streaking his face that what he said was true. He looked terrified, actually; full of regret, too. His head kept twitching toward the bus window, like he was trying to check on you. I know how he feels, now. I worried about you a lot too.
Did you know, Adam? Did you know that I knew your secret? You were just like your Dad. You never flat out told me, but there sure were a lot of signs. You’d come over my house, late at night. You’d be crying or in pain. You’d bang on my door. My Dad and I would exchange out glances and I’d head to the door. You wouldn’t say anything, but I’d let you in. You’d crawl into my arms, and quiver. You seemed to be helpless, but would later morph into the same monster that hurt you. Like a chain reaction, he would stab you in the back and you’d spin right around and do the same to me. I know that this happens a lot; to many people. I just don’t understand why. If you knew how it felt, the constant state of uneasiness, why would you want to inflict that on someone else that you love?
You’re home was just as broken as the next. I saw you’re Mom as someone who was vulnerable and emotional. I could easily see her slipping into the traps that I was. We were almost in the same boat, both being hurt by you boys. I never met your Dad, not a single time. I never would stop by your house on my own and I knew that you would never ask me to come over when he was around. I was always very wary of when I was with you, making sure that I’d never have to cross paths with him. That conversation on the bus was always in the front of my mind. It benefited me and destroyed me. It gave me reasons to make excuses for you. You’d hurt me and I’d tell myself that you grew up behaving like this. It was an instinct. You know what I mean, right? It was like people pronounce words the same way as their parents or how people like the same sports teams that their parents do. Our parents are the people that we idolize; the people that we model our lives after. Before we meet any inspiring people
out in the real world, we meet two very important ones; our mothers and fathers. I think we both had to suffer from the bad examples of our parents. This is because no matter what awful things they do, we will always love them unconditionally, because they are family. This was something that took me a while to get my head around, but after I learned that it was happening to you too, I could grasp this concept a little more.
Knowing this was happening also struck me with panic. I never said or did anything about it because we never even really talked about our own problems, I didn’t want to bring up the ones that were going on in a relationship that wasn’t my own. It stressed me out, though, knowing that you were feeling the same emotions that I was. I didn’t want you to get seriously injured, either. That’s why I always let you over my house, no matter what. I knew you came here for protection, sometimes. My Dad would always make sure you were okay, and keep a good look out to make sure that your Dad wasn’t coming to look for you or anything. The thing that bothered me the most, though, is that you never saw me as looking weaker than you. No matter how many times you’d hurt me, physically or mentally, my crying wouldn’t phase you, because you did the same the night before. You wouldn’t even flinch if my lip was bleeding from a firm punch. You’d crack your knuckles and walk away, not even looking back at me, because you knew you’d be coming right home to the same thing. I could never use my pain as a sob story for you. You never saw your own actions as anything that was too tragic, because it all seemed natural for you. It sickened me; not only that you were got so aggresive and wild, but that you thought it was all okay. My shrieks were just echos from yours in the past.
This was one of the reasons that I didn’t leave you sooner. I felt like you needed me. I was you’re closest friend; the person that you came to when you searched for help. If you’re way of dealing with the pain and feeling better was to give it to me instead, then I would be fine with it. Adam, all I wanted was for you to be happy. I wanted you to get out of that house. I wanted us to move in together and share a home free of our parents’ mess; a brand new home, a fresh start. People think I’m insane when I tell them this now. “Why would you want to spend every waking moment in fear of the next time he’s going to hurt you?” they’d say. It’s so hard to explain, though. I truly loved you; I did. There was so much to you that people didn’t get to see. To strangers, you were some quiet, mistaken, outspoken teenager. To people who knew me, you were the messed up one that was tormenting me, scarring my body and mind. To me, Adam, you were so much more.
Remember when my grandmother died, and I was really upset over it? Remember what you did? You showed up at my house, two cones from Ben and Jerry’s in your hand and a stack of our favorite movies. “I hear someone needs some cheering up!” you said, a smile on your face, as you entered the door. We sat together the entire night. I vented to you about how much I was going to miss her, and you made me laugh to get my mind off things. That was the nicest thing anyone has even done for me. By
the time the morning rolled around, and we both passed out on my couch, my heart was ten times less heavy and happy tears coated my face instead of sad ones.
What about that time we went to the beach together, last summer? You called me up early in the morning, you’re voice cheerful and adventurous. “Samantha! Let’s go to the beach today!” you said. I jumped on the opportunity, like I always did when you were in a good mood. We walked along the shore for hours, playfully pushing eachother into the water and scrambling to collect the prettiest seashells. We ran far away from the crowds of people in the main area of the beach; secluding ourselves from the toddlers making sandcastles, and groups of women working on their tans. We layed down together in the sand and I cuddled up close to you. Every time I saw your chest rise and fall, I made a promise. I promised that I wouldn’t leave you, no matter how hard things got, because there would always be times like these that would make up for it. Brilliant colors painted themselves on the summer sky, and the sun fell, leaving us alone in the dark. “I love you,” you said to me, for the first time.
“I love you too, Adam. More than anything,” I replied, inching my face closer to yours. Your lips grazed mine and I closed my eyes, enveloping myself in the more perfect moment we’ve ever shared. I love thinking about this day.
It wasn’t just the big things you did that made me happy. You did many things that would make me smile. On your good days, you always seemed so full of life. We shared the same sense of humor, and could joke around with eachother all of the time. The giggles escaping both of our mouths seemed to relieve us from all the stress, like we were balloons that had been blown up too big, and were being popped. We shared the same opinions too. Neither of us were one dimentional. We had a lot more depth than a lot of kids our same age; maybe it had to do with all the experiences we had growing up. It was nice, though, to know that you were there for me when nobody else understood anything I was going through, even if it was sometimes you that caused it. Plus, no matter how disgusting I was feeling, you’d always make me feel beautiful. You’d jot down little notes during class and slip them onto my desk. “You’re eyes are so pretty today,” one of them said, in your sloppy, slanted handwriting, when I wasn’t wearing my usual caked on eye makeup, because I was running late. It made me feel a little weird going to school minus something I always had on, but you took my mind off of it. You helped me feel like I was natually good looking, erasing some insecurities and assisting my low confidence. I liked that about you. You always knew how to make me feel a little bit better about myself.
Adam, I’m so thankful for you; really. Even though I don’t want you back in my life, I’m greatful for the time that we had together. I got really wrapped up in all of the bad parts, sometimes, to let you know how much I appreciated the sweet parts of you. You were a really good desert that I knew was unhealthy. Honestly, I do miss you. I miss all of the nice times we shared; the times where things you seem to stop complicating themselves, and just be. I learned a lot from you, too. Instead of having a
cute, little first relationship and then having to await rougher ones coming towards me in the future, I experienced it all already. When I rode my bike for the first time, I was petrified, yelling at my Dad not to let go of me, but when he did, I could ride on my own. Then, I could ride on my own forever. This was kind of like that. It was scary at times, causing me to overthink everything when I was in bed at night. I made it through, though. No other relationship I have is going to feel the same way. They are all going to seem smoother and better than the next. Each time you hurt me was simply another lesson learned.

Things went too far. I felt tangled in a mess of my own problems, and I had to cut
myself out of it. So, I did.
I woke up the morning after our break up to an empty feeling in the pit of my
stomach; the same one that creeps around and stays everytime something bad
happens. The dark clouds outside spit upon my window and caused a repetetive patter on my roof. It was obstreperous and potentially bothersome, but I welcomed it. Any noise, even a down pour of rain was more satisfying than the silence that was closing in on me; suffocating me with every breath I took. I never thought leaving you would be so difficult. I stared hard at my bedroom door; at the familiar wooden frame and metal handle. I felt my eyes grow larger, dilating as they were dotted and lined with brand new tears; round two of some sort of crying fest. I pressed my head into my pillow, muting out to world until all I could hear was my own heartbeat. It was steady; not paced all erratically like it was when I was around you. Hearing that made my crying stop, almost automatically. It was the first step; the first jump off of this whole disaster. I wasn’t chained down anymore; my own rules governing me. I could have conversations with who I wanted to. I could disperse my time the way I wanted to.
I could even date someone else; move on and forget about all of this.
From across the room, I saw my reflection in a mirror hanging on my wall. I looked horrible, obviously having a rough night of sleep; but there was something in my eyes, a certain sparkle that hadn’t been there in years. It reminded me of being a little kid, not so caught up in things. I knew that I was the same Samantha that I was the day before. My hair was the same length, and I was the exact same height. I just seemed to look so much better. I looked strong; my skin thicker and leftover bruises not as bad, because I knew they’d fade and new ones wouldn’t come along to take their place. Even if I didn’t feel okay, I would get okay, because I was done. I was free.