Recover

I saw him last night at the crowded bar, with his shirt collar turned up, looking about thirteen, although I'm pretty sure he's now in his mid-twenties.
He caught my eye and feigned surprise, but I'd seen him watching me fifteen minutes ago. Still, I played along and we kissed hello.
We tried to make small talk above the deafening house beats, but I had no idea what he said, all I saw was the honey warm eyes that hadn't changed and the face that could never quite look at me the same way without showing the hurt I'd caused him gazillion years ago.

Some people never recover.

Still, it tugs at my heart and I remember the guilt of receiving his clumsy love letter, written during class with ink-stained doodles in the corner. He was the first boy to ever write me one.

No. Wait.

He was the only boy to ever write me one, with words so joyful and sweet, it broke my heart to break his, but we were young and silly, and I was old enough to know that chemistry aside, kissing under moonlight aside, beautiful hands and honey-warm eyes aside, we weren't right together.

No one has quite loved me the same way he did, in that passionate/desperate/I would give anything to be with you/see you after class way.

Since him, they have been careless and selfish, forgetful and somewhat affectionate, but nothing quite like the self-involved teenage love that knows, just knows, that this is as good as it gets, and no one gets me but him.

I take a step back and bump into a girl who gives me the look of death: she must be his girlfriend, she too looks thirteen and I hope he's met his match.

I scream goodbye through the noise and walk away, I can see him looking at me out of the corner of my eye, and I feel old. Old and sad that moments like these are gone and over, like that sunset on the beach, sitting on his surfboard and wearing his jacket, as he gently kisses my neck like the sunset breeze, knowing that I am adored and wonderful, adored and made wonderful by him.

Some people never recover.