No Broken-hearted girl (Crushing Hard Series Book 2)

Dear Diary: 29/09/2013

Sunday

Kevin and I broke up. Or whatever you call it when you were never really official, just stuck somewhere between casual and something more, never quite crossing the line. I’m back at my dad’s place now, lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling while silent tears run down my face, soaking into the pillow beneath me. No one can hear me falling apart, and maybe that’s for the best. The thought of explaining what happened feels too raw, too painful to put into words.

The weekend had started out perfectly, too. Kevin picked me up on Friday, like we had planned. We dropped my bag off at his place, and before I could even fully unpack, he had me pinned against the wall. There was this urgency, this need between us. We didn’t even bother taking off our clothes and we had sex; it was fast, heated, messy. It made me think, this is what love should feel like. Afterward, we went out. I was floating, drunk on the high of just being with him, imagining that we were something more than just what we were.

Things took a turn when we ran into his friends at the bar. I was holding his hand, expecting him to introduce me, maybe with the same kind of affection he showed when we were alone. But when he said, “This is my friend,” something inside me cracked. Friend. Not girlfriend, not partner, not even someone special. Just a friend. I still had his cum between my thighs, but I was just a friend. I laughed it off in front of his friends, not wanting to ruin the night. But I could feel the hurt bubbling beneath the surface, lingering in every touch, every glance. When we danced, it was like he was holding back, like he was too aware of being seen by them, like the affection we shared in private wasn’t meant for the public eye.

Still, I didn’t say anything. We left the bar, grabbing McDonald’s on the way back to his place. I tried to shake off the feeling, telling myself it was stupid to care so much. This was our first sleepover, after all, and I didn’t want to ruin it with some petty argument. When we got back, I changed into the silky red nightie I had been waiting to wear, the one I had picked out just for him.

He whistled when I walked into the room, his eyes raking over me in that way that made my heart race. “Red is my new favorite color,” he said, pulling me toward him. “Every time I see it, I’m going to think of this moment.”

I smiled, feeling a bit more secure in the moment. “Too bad you won’t see me in it for long,” I teased, and he grinned, immediately pulling the nightie off and tossing it aside. We didn’t sleep at all that night. Kevin was insatiable. The whole night felt like a dream, like something I could hold on to.

We woke up late on Saturday, tangled in each other. We spent the entire day naked  indoors, wrapped up in blankets and watching movies. I even cooked for him, despite the limited ingredients in his fridge. When he offered to run to the store, I couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving, even for a few minutes. So I made do with what he had, whipping up a simple pasta with Bolognese sauce. He loved it, complimenting every bite.

It felt… perfect. But in the back of my mind, that moment from Friday night lingered, haunting me. My mom called in the afternoon, and she called at the worst time. She called when Kevin was still inside of me.  And I lied through my teeth, telling her I was at Lissa’s, acting like everything was normal. But the guilt of that lie vanished every time I looked at Kevin—at his messy curly hair, those deep brown eyes, his bare chest with that light dusting of chest hair. He was everything I had wanted in a person. How could something that felt so right be so wrong?

This morning, Kevin was supposed to drop me off while my mom was at church. The drive back was quiet. He kept thanking me for an amazing weekend, saying how much he was going to miss me. But there was something in his voice, a lightness, like he was trying to ignore the tension that had been building since Friday. I was unusually silent, still replaying his introduction of me as his “friend.” I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"Kevin," I said, my voice breaking the silence in the car. "Why did you introduce me as just your friend on Friday?"

His grip tightened on the steering wheel, his jaw tensing. "What do you mean?" he asked, though he knew exactly what I was talking about.

"With your friends," I clarified. "You called me your friend. You acted like… like I wasn’t important."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "What else was I supposed to say? We’re not... I mean, we’re not dating, are we? I didn’t want them to get the wrong idea."

I laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and unfamiliar even to my ears. "So what are we then, Kevin? Because you treat me like we’re something more. You take me on these romantic dates, you buy me expensive dinners, you call me every night. But the minute your friends are around, I’m just a ‘friend.’”

"Look," he said, frustration seeping into his voice. "I told you from the beginning—I don’t date. This was never supposed to be more than—"

"More than what?" I cut him off, my voice trembling. "More than sex? More than spending every moment together? You say you don’t date, but you act like we’re something. Why is it so hard for you to admit what this really is?"

He stayed silent, staring straight ahead, his knuckles white from how tightly he was gripping the wheel.

"Kevin," I said softly, the words catching in my throat, "I love you. I can’t help it. I want to be with you. I want everything—the relationship, the commitment, all of it. I want to meet your family. I want you to meet my mom. I want to make plans with you, build a life with you."

He glanced at me, his face pale, his eyes wide with shock. "You… love me?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," I said, my throat hurt from tying to fight back tears. "How could I not? You made it so easy."

His silence was deafening. I could see him swallowing, his eyes shifting as if he was trying to find the right words, but none came. The longer the silence stretched between us, the more my heart sank.

"It’s fine," I said, wiping a tear I hadn’t even realized had fallen. "I get it. You don’t feel the same."

Kevin stared at me, his face a mixture of confusion, anger, and hurt. "I never said I didn’t care about you—"

"But you don’t love me," I interrupted, my voice breaking. I hoped he would interrupt me and say that he did love me, but he didn't. "And I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with something casual when I want more. I deserve more."

He didn’t respond. He didn’t fight for me. And for the first time, when he dropped me off, he didn’t kiss me goodbye.

That hurt more than anything.

I’m proud of myself for standing up for what I want, but it doesn’t make the pain any easier. Why do I keep falling in love when the heartbreak feels like this? Why does it have to hurt so much to want more, to want what I deserve?

As I lie here in my room, the tears keep coming, and I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like this—like loving someone always ends in pain.