And so I got drunk with her, even though the 12 year-old me swore that I would never take a shot of ***** or a bottle of beer. I bent my morals for her most of the time, but I didn't mind. I sat next to her in a bar with other people and kept my eyes locked on hers, memorized every detail and felt alive as ever.
And when she told jokes, I laughed. Amidst my boisterous, embarrassing, weird laugh, I did. I laughed so much that I could barely breathe. And when I looked up, her eyes were still gazing at me as I intently looked away.
And at some point, there were moments when she reached for my hand and I let her. I found my fingers curling around hers, like they knew something that I didn't and couldn't admit – I'd keep her, only if I could.
And I was happy and it was like I'd never felt that kind of happiness before. It was new and unfamiliar, but in a good way. I told her carelessly, while my head on her chest, "please don't hurt me, I probably couldn't take it if you do."
And she kissed my forehead and said, "alright." And somehow, somehow, her "alright" was enough for me, even if I knew that meant "I'm not sure if I couldn't hurt you, but I'll try."
And we all know that "I'll try" almost always means "I can't but I don't have the guts to tell you that."