Not The First Love : Re-Imagined

1. Taylor : Who's That Guy

"She was watching the stars, and I, I was looking at my moon watching them." Shit, it's touching, ain't it? Screw your stars, and screw you. Why can't love be like in those fuckin' books? Well... that kind of love only exists in fairy tales. "And here we are again! THE SAME! FUCKIN' TOPIC! LOVE!" I scoff, my words laced with bitter frustration.

"People say moles mark where your true love kissed you most in your past life." Who the hell are these people, anyway? Lost in thought, my once-steaming coffee now sits cold, forgotten on the damn table beside.

I slam the book down and stomp to the kitchen to reheat it. I got moles on my neck, so that means—Ah, Rachel! Why the fuck did you bring this shit up in the first place? And why the hell am I even dwelling on this crap?

I was chowing down with my girlfriends when Rachel dropped a bomb, "Did y'all know moles mark where your true love kissed you most in your past life? Look, I got one on my left cheek. And here's a secret: my guy kisses me right on my moles. Must mean he was my past true love." Rachel and her man were the kings and queens of charm and popularity back in our high school days. At 18, we're still clueless about what the real love and its responsibilities entail.

"Lucky you, Rachel," the others chimed in, excluding me. Nah, I wasn't jealous. It just made me cringe thinking about it all. They all started sharing their mole stories. "Elena's got one on her damn cheek. Bella's is just below her lips. Daisy's is on her chest." They giggled, fantasizing about their past lovers.

"Hey, Girls!" I interrupted, waving my hand to break their damn trance. They were all lost in thought. Elena sat next to me. I nudged her literally 'fuckin' gently'. "Where the hell are you lost?"

"Thinking 'bout him..."

"So, Taylor, where's yours?" she asked.

"I don't know, and I don't buy into that," I retorted before sauntering back to class.

"Daisy's got hers on her chest, so that means her past lover kissed her there! How sweet. But why the fuck am I even thinking about this? God, it feels weird, thinking about someone that way," I mused, and at that time I could faintly hear Ms. Lina's voice call out.

"Taylor.. Taylor! The teacher's calling you!" a girl's voice reached me, barely above a whisper, but I cared not to wonder whose it might be. She repeated and then shook my shoulder. "Sorry, yeah Ms. Lina," I responded after snapping out of my daydream.

"What's the matter, Taylor? Where are you lost?" Ms. Lina said.

"Nowhere, I'm all ears," I replied, trying to sound attentive. "It doesn't seem that way," she retorted, but what else could I do?

"Sorry, Ma'am, I'm all ears now," I responded politely.

"Yes, you better be," she said in her teacher tone.

Ms. Lina, my teacher and therapist in her mid-30s, a woman of quiet strength and genuine empathy. Her love for physics shone through her lectures, intertwining with her role as our mentor. Outside of school, she found solace in gardening and the pages of classic literature, which she often recommended to us.

Having been at that high school for four years, I haven't made many male friends, except Mark, who's no longer a friend. By 'no more,' I meant he's no longer my friend. I wish I could say that asshole is no more in this world. I find contentment in my small circle of girlfriends. Fewer friends mean fewer problems, fewer disputes, and no expectations when it comes to love. In reality, I only hold expectations from love within the pages of books. I sip my coffee and make a conscious effort to keep that thought at bay.

Moving ahead in my day, I finish the last sip of my coffee and set the empty mug aside, the smell of beans lingering in the house. People do drugs; I do coffee. With a sigh, I retreat to the comfort of my bedroom, where my diary, "Whispers," awaits on the cluttered desk. Pen poised in hesitation. Honestly, I don't have much to write about—just that ridiculous joke from Rachel or Ms. Lina scolding me? I don't want to waste my diary pages on this shit. Wait, yes, I have something to write.