The rumble of his car. It was a soothing sound, as we both stared at each other with hungry eyes. We gripped each other, sprawled on the backseat. He was determined, and I was relaxed.
He gave me a steady gaze, and he asked me if I was ready. Silly boy. I nodded my head slowly, dragging my thumb across his bottom lip. He bit on to my digit, tugging at the waist of my pants until they slid off.
Within minutes it was everything.
And in minutes after, it was over. We were laying there, breathing heavy. I wish I loved him. There were things that I could admire, but I knew I shouldn't.
Like his soft pants, content little pips and hums in my ear once it was all said and done. If he was mine, I would adore that about him.
But then it was over. He didn't walk me home at night, he just stared after me. Taking a long drag on his cigarette, cursing himself. Because I could see the longing in his eyes too, how bitter the morning would taste.
That night was the last time I ever drank. Nothing, no alcohol or liquor, no substance at all, could bring me back to how I felt that night. I was complete, and I could move on. Whatever struggle that had driven me to abuse my weekends were done with, and it was because of him.
I always keep the scrap of paper with his number scribbled on it in my pocket. Sometimes I put the digits into my phone, but I never send anything.
Because I know I will never have him, and that he will never truly want me.
I wish this was a love story, but it's not.
The End.
