I was lying there, with my head on his chest, trying to synchronize my breathing to his. Two of his breaths equaled one of mine-- that damnable fast metabolism of his. I knew we would wake up tomorrow, blink at the clock groggily, and doze off again. We would do this again and again, neither of us wanting to let go of sleep, or the comfort of each others bodies. This was the closest we ever allowed ourselves to get.

My favorite part of snoozing has always been floating in and out of dreams. He doesn't remember his dreams-- why does he like sleeping in so much? I always wondered this. And was he really asleep on those lazy Saturday mornings? Or was he in that in-between stage like I was, feeling warm and contented and unwilling to break the spell?

It's almost enough, I would think to myself. What we have-- it's not what I want, but it's almost enough.

We were smoking cigarettes.

I didn't smoke. But I needed something in my mouth that wasn't his tongue, and I needed something to do with my hands that wasn't touching him. He was a boy I wasn't allowed to have. I was a girl he wasn't allowed to have. We had thought it through, talked it out, convinced ourselves of the wrongness of the idea. We wanted it anyway.

I couldn't stop smoking. I knew what would happen next. But eventually my cigarette was gone; there were only ashes left. Eventually I had to throw down the end and crush it with my boot, as if I knew what to do with the butt-end of a cigarette anyway.

I could have lit another cigarette, I suppose, but I didn't. There was something I wanted more.

I wanted him for nine months. I wasn't alone; everyone wanted him.

He smelled fantastic, and he had a great ass. Every time he would see me, he'd run his hands up my back and into my hair. He would pull my body against his with just the right amount of forcefulness. He flirted with all the girls.

We had chemistry, though. Chemistry that other people noticed and commented on, even when we weren't touching each other. It was a palpable thing, whatever it was. He knew how hard to grab my hair, how to whisper right into my ear, exactly how to send shocks down my spine.

It was me, I think, who couldn't take it anymore. We were standing by his car, talking, and I was watching his lips move. He had perfect lips, and all I could think about was what they would feel like against mine. I realized I wasn't listening to a damn word he was saying.

I kissed him.

I already knew that it couldn't last.

I mean, sometimes you just know, right? He was tall and leonine, he set my body absolutely on fire, and he was all wrong for me. But I turned on my side and felt him wrap his arms around me, nestle his head into my neck, nibble my skin sleepily.

I decided that when it was over-- which would be soon, I could feel it-- I would be happy just to know he was alive in the world somewhere. If I could remember his smile. The inquisitive way he would look into my eyes as if trying to figure me out. How he looked standing naked in my doorway.

When he was awake, he was mercurial and inconstant. He gave me his attention in crumbs. He made promises that he not only broke, but never had any intention of keeping. The process of figuring this out made my heart hurt.

And I hung on anyway, because of the way he'd bury his face in my hair and breathe in deeply. The way he would wake up in the middle of the night and kiss me slowly. The way he would involuntarily pull me closer as if, in unconsciousness, his body knew what it wanted.

When he was awake, he didn't love me back. When he was asleep, he was perfect.

He was always having intense online conversations with this girl, talking about something mysterious. Something he was working through, he said.

I had problems of my own, and I had distractions, but I had my suspicions too.

He claimed she was a friend, someone he could talk to. He looked me square in the eyes and asked me to believe him. But I knew. I knew what a good liar he could be. I knew that the one thing we had always lacked was trust. I knew it was my own fault.

When he told me he was leaving me, he gave me reasons. They shattered my heart into bits, but they were good reasons. And even then, I knew they weren't the only reasons. I knew the girl's name. I knew who she was. I knew what he wasn't telling me.

So when the envelope arrived, calling him "babycakes" right on the front in bubbly teenaged letters, I wasn't surprised. I threw the envelope at him and walked into the other room, not bothering with the confrontation. I knew exactly what he would say, the precise lies he would tell, how he would try to spare me the truth. I knew that once I packed everything and moved away, it would be over anyway.

And it was.

I had been kissed once or twice before. The guy who favored a constantly swirling tongue. The guy whose tongue twitched like a lizard. I reported back to my best friend, "Yeah, making out isn't all it's cracked up to be."

I was seventeen.

It finally happened because we were teenagers, because our hormones were going through the roof, and because we were best friends. We knew we loved each other, but we weren't sure how. We thought maybe it was like this.

We were laying on a couch in a recording studio, holding each other. I could feel how fast his heart was beating. Mine was, too. We were so very young. And we kissed each other, and we didn't stop for a long time.

"I don't know what you were talking about," he said. "Making out is awesome." And with him, for the first time, it was.