I used to walk two kilometers to get to school everyday. That was before your rusty orange Chevrolet and cherry lollipop stained smile started parking in front of our gray household. I started skipping Mom's half-cooked boiled eggs and stale cereal for coffee and bagels in your truck. Your voice was the best wake-up call a sleep deprived girl like me could ever get.
We never went straight home; we ignored my 10 PM curfew. We'd take detours to our favorite places which were scattered all over town. You had kissed me more than a hundred times in each and every single one; it was too late when I realized that it was your way of claiming me. Nobody else ever took a step in my direction because you'd etched your initials on my arms in your ugly handwriting.
And now I'm trying to sew my skin back together and the strangest thing is that the needle hurts more than your razor. I should've known we were wrong when I stopped telling my best friend about our misadventures. I won't run back to her crying about the end because she'd never understand without learning about the middle.
One day I missed the bus ride home because I got too engrossed with deleting our pictures from my phone. It had been three weeks since you crawled out my window for the last time, jaw stern and eyes cold. It seemed that with every step I took an old memory would flash across my corrupted brain, making me choke back tears. Before I knew it, I was home, and the house looked grayer than it did when I left that morning.
I smiled for the first time that April. Two kilometers just proved that I was still as strong as before you knew me.
