nikes / jack gilinsky.

blurb

It was the way he looked at me. Like he loved me, like he truly loved me and I could tell. No matter how many times he told me he was done, done with me, done with everything. No matter how many times we'd stay up until the early hours of the morning yelling, screaming at each other, I always knew - just by looking in his tired, dry brown eyes, that he still loved me.

I remember the first night he ever told me he loved me, I remember the first night we ever fought too - probably because they took place on the same night. I remember that I cried a lot that night, and he held me, large hands became gentle as they brushed over my hair, his arms acting as a cradle - and me? A fussy baby. Maybe that's why things didn't work out the way I planned, because I was just a baby, he always called me childish, immature, as if the one year he had been alive longer than me made any difference.

Maybe it did.

But maybe it didn't.