She wouldn’t know it until much later in life, but falling in love with him felt the way wine hitting an empty glass sounded.

It was as if every pore on her skin, every bump on her tongue, all of the cells lining her organs expanded with a ravenous greed to drink in his love.

It was a love that could only happen in your youth, when your rational self was inextricably bound and, thus, suffocated by your heart.

It was the type of love that frightened parents. Tentative whispers of “those kids…” and the suppressed memory of what they too accomplished when the only world that matter was in their own mind.

It was the standard that one would judge all other loves against and, for that, it would be both revered and resented.

It was another layer of skin that one could not scrub off, even if all that remained of the love was an oily residue.

And, I suppose, for that, she loathed him. And, I suppose, for that, she would always be a little less whole.

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