Weston

They say time heals. They lie. Because when I see her again—standing at the same pier where I once told her I loved her—I feel everything like it happened yesterday. The embarrassment. The sting of her rejection. The way she looked at me, unbothered, as if my feelings were just an inconvenience to her perfect little summer. I tell myself I don’t care anymore. That I’ve moved on. But when she turns around and locks eyes with me, smiling like she never wrecked me, I realize something. I hate that smile. She left, just like she always did. And when I told her how I felt, she crushed me so effortlessly, like it was nothing. Ten years later, I should be over it. Over her. And I was.