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I knew of you; I saw you around from time to time over the years. Never spoke, but then again we were stupid little kids. At least I was. Years later we started talking, usually I was drunk. I don't know what you got out of my late night words over the phone and facebook. It was a rough time in my life, and maybe you realized that.

The first night we hung out I showed you some of my old climbing spots. We went up the bank fire escape to the rooftops, more than likely trespassing and breaking all sorts of laws. I don't remember what you were wearing. It was cold, but there wasn't much snow on the roof. We sat across from each other cross-legged and smoked our cigarettes. I was a little nervous so I lit cigarette after cigarette and you kept pace. I wasn't sure at that moment.

The next night we hung out with your friends in your parents basement. Somehow I ended up cautiously holding your hand while we sat on the couch. You love Fight Club too? Of course you do, crazy girl. I didn't need to smoke again quite yet but I wanted to have a little time with you, without your friends breathing down my neck. You agreed to come outside, but didn't want to smoke. We stood close and I felt a little guilty for causing you to smell like cigarettes at your parents house. It wasn't snowing hard, but the snow on the ground was getting inside my red converses. You looked a little cold and I was shaking, but not from the cold. I kissed you, and you kissed me. I dropped my half smoked cigarette and held you in my arms. You smiled.

"Your smoking a different kind of cigarette today, I can taste it." Yes I am, wonderful girl.

The next time I saw you I asked you out. I felt clear. I felt amazing. Sure we are both fucked up, but you seemed as crazy about me as I am about you. I was grinning like an idiot on the drive back to college.

About 3 months passed:

I expected some kind of warning or slow painful breakdown, but it was rather sudden. Maybe that is a good thing. I feel better today, and that in itself hurts. I don't want the pain to end so quickly. I would like to pretend that there was something, anything, real about us. Why did you give me back all those things? I made them all for you girl. I didn't ask for them back. If they hurt you so much you could have just thrown them all away, instead of shoving it all in my face. Did you think everything would just go away with an exchange of items? I should have burnt all your drawings. "They are a piece of me", you said. I know I should move on-- and not have a couple pieces of you hanging on my wall-- but it hurts that you don't want me to have them. I miss you. It is not fair that you want us to disappear. This never happened. We were never stupid and happy. You want to take it all back, and that hurts.

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