I Loved You First

Prologue

Eleven eleven - Make a wish.

I close my puffy, tear stained eyes, making the same wish I've been making for the last eight years.

Him. I always wish for him.

I wipe the pool of black mascara from under my eyes in yet another pointless attempt at pulling myself together. Waterproof, my foot! Note to self, never buy this mascara again.

Looking down at the black smudges on my hands, I let out a shaky breath. Who am I kidding? The best waterproof mascara in the world couldn't handle this job.

Sweet heavens. This night.

Why did I have to go and do that? We were okay. We were in a good enough place. Why couldn't I have just left it alone? Why couldn't I have left it all unsaid?

Because you romanticize too much, Eloise. That's why.

I drop my head into my hands, hoping to relieve some of the throbbing from behind my eyes.

When am I going to get it through my head that life is not a romantic comedy, the girl doesn't always get the guy, and not everyone wants to hear a freaking monologue.

A weak sigh escapes my lips as I look around.

Here I sit, wishing from the floor of my freshly decorated garage apartment where the faint smell of fresh paint and Tiffany blue walls only add insult to injury after the events, or lack thereof, of the night.

I run my fingers over my necklace while I scan the photos that line the room with blurry eyes. The photos that he helped me choose, pinned to the black ribbon that he helped me run down the length of the room, right where the slanted white ceilings meet the walls. What, just a few days ago, were fun and comforting memories from the last eight years, now a torturous reminder of what could have been. Or worse, what still could be.

There isn't an inch of this room that a memory of us doesn't linger like the most stubborn of smoke.

It was one of our spots. A refuge from the outside world. The place where he found any and every ticklish spot on my body. Where I held his head in my lap when he didn't have the words to explain how he felt, but in the way that I always did, I knew. Where he wiped my tears and built me back up after my worst days. Where he encouraged me and made me feel like I could do anything I ever dreamed of. Where we talked about the future and ate junk food and watched movies. Where my little brothers would interrupt us every fifteen minutes. Where we kissed... A lot.

Here, where we used to dream big dreams together, I sit alone.

Well, technically not alone. My sister's snobby cat is in here too, but that's even more depressing. I make eye contact with the thing, wondering if it can sense my desperation.

Probably. I mean, look at me.

It's my high school graduation night. What should be one of the best nights of my life and here I am, in a puddle on the floor while I watch Patrick Dempsey lay bare his soul in the final scenes of Made of Honor for the umpteenth time. I realize it's fiction, but goodness, it all went so well for him.

I'm still in my strapless graduation dress, heels discarded at the door, cap and gown strewn across the floor and currently under said cat. I may or may not have a pint of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia in hand with a batch of my mom's worried-about-you-but-don't-know-what-else-to-do brownies to my right. Do I keep crumbling the brownies into the ice cream for every bite? Yes, yes I do. And it is quite literally the best thing to come out of this day.

To my left are a few homemade graduation cards from my little brothers, my camera with photos from tonight that I can't help but over analyze, his sweatshirt like a security blanket on my lap, and my phone. My phone, that no matter how hard I try, I can't stop checking.

Oh, and can't forget about the mascara furthering its pilgrimage down my face.

I'm a site. A real sight.

Wondering how it came to this?

It's a long story, but same.

I pick up my phone to check it, again. It's clearly working because, of course, I'm getting text after text from everyone other than the one person I'm dying to hear from. I toss it back down in frustration, hiding my face in my hands. I'm supposed to be at my best friend's house for her big graduation sleepover tonight, but I bowed out for obvious reasons.

The only party I'm fit for tonight is a pity party and you guessed it, I'm the host.

I glance over at the piece of notebook paper I crumpled and threw at the waste basket when I got home tonight. Can a piece of paper mock you? Because this one definitely is.

Perfect senior year, alright.

I'm sure some would describe this scene as pathetic, unnecessary, dramatic even; but those people weren't there for, well, all of it.

They don't know where we first kissed or the song we first danced to. They don't know the way it felt when we would lock eyes across crowded rooms or the meaning behind the necklace around my neck. They don't know the things we would whisper to each other in class or the notes we left in door handles. They don't know the dreams we had or where we had hoped to be in five years. They don't know about his car or the senior hall or our spot at the football stadium. And they definitely don't know about that morning in his bed.

They don't know and honestly, I can't blame them. If I weren't party to it, I wouldn't know any better either. But that's the problem, I do know. I know, with every fiber of my being the vigor and absolute magic that is our magnetic pull. A pull that has always made us feel fated, mythic even.

Sometimes - like this very moment - I wish I didn't know because maybe that would be easier. To live in blissful ignorance. To simply not know that kind of love exists. To not know that it's possible for another human being to touch not only your body in a way that makes you feel seen, but also your soul. To not know, first hand, that there actually is such a thing as a twin flame, a soul mate, fate. To not compare every other moment to all of the ones with him.

I close my eyes and lean back against the daybed behind me coming to the conclusion that I always do. One of resolve and acceptance that when it comes down to it, as much as it hurts and as lost as I feel, I wouldn't trade that knowledge for the world. I wouldn't trade us for the world.

And in this moment of resolve, my phone buzzes.

I creep just one eye open as if it will make it any less painful that it's not him, but what I see jerks me to full attention.

WPR

Holy sheet cake.

I reach for it, but stop. Staring at his initials, scared and breathless. Is my wish on the other side of that text or my heart's final blow?