The End of Something

"Isn't love any fun?"
-The End of Something (Hemingway)

It was irrational, to say the least.
You were much older-eight years older, to be exact.
I was but thirteen.
You walked into the room, and I knew.
Oh yes, I knew.
This was only the beginning.
You approached me, flirted with me.

You knew how old I was.

I flirted right on back.
With you.
With the idea of me being with you.
It all started out with a harmless crush; a schoolgirl infatuation.
But it soon turned into something more, something dangerous.
Danger.
It was so alluring.
You, being the literary type, compared us to Romeo and Juliet.
Forbidden love.
I, being a teenager, compared us to Edward and Bella.
Someone was going to get hurt, and we both knew it would be you.
But we were living foolishly in the moment.
A few precarious months passed by.
We drank.
Smoked.
Loved.
But a colleague of yours caught us in the hallway.
You were fired.
I was suspended.

Six months after you left, I began seeing someone.
He was great.
Kind.
Gentle.
Not too smart.
Most importantly, nothing like you.
It was time to let go of you.
We had e-mailing back and forth for a couple months.
Our now platonic relationship had grown awkward, like the first time you kissed me.
You smelled like must and tasted like cigarettes.
You tasted older.
And that was the first time I realized how very wrong this was.

I am officially ending it with you, ex-lover.
Too many nights have been spent crying over you, thinking of the cheap beer you kept in your fridge.
I would never drink that beer.
It was too stale, like how our relationship had grown.
Insipid.
Tiresome.
Familiar.
So goodbye.

Goodbye.