I reached up with my finger and traced the scar over my eyebrow, remembering when that was the greatest hurt I'd ever known.

I wanted to tell him so. Find the right words, string them together in the ideal way, knowing that here they would have the best chance of sounding perfect.

That first love. And the first one who breaks your heart. For me, they just happen to be the same person.

I have to admit, an unrequited love is so much better than a real one. I mean, it's perfect... As long as something is never even started, you never have to worry about it ending. It has endless potential.

How weird was it that so many bits and pieces, all diverse, could make something whole. Something with potential. 'Perfect.

"I just don't know," I said, my voice sounding bumby, not like mine, "how do you help someone who doesn't want your help. What do you do when you can't do anything?"

I wondered if he ever thought of me, and hated the pang I felt when I told myself he didn't.