We kiss again and this time, it feels familiar. I know exactly how we fit together, his arm around my waist, my hands on his chest, the pressure of his lips on mine. We have each other memorized.

Some things are hard to let go of.

Suicide to them is an act of selfishness. Someone who is truly selfless does not think of himself often enough to desire death.

Sometimes,” he says, sliding his arm across my shoulders, “people just want to be happy, even if it’s not real.

I can’t leave now. I like her too much. There, I said it. But I won’t say it again.

In that moment I know exactly what I want; I want to peel away all the layers of clothing between us, strip away everything that separates us, the past and the present and the future.

I am fed up. I am fed up with tears and weakness. But there isn't much I can do to stop them.