Edited by: Alloe Mak

The pre-college breakup of high school sweethearts almost seems like a rite of passage. But that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. 

I can imagine how it’ll all play out. He’ll park on my driveway one last time, and he will kiss me with the same mercy he always does. 

And I will sob. 

I will sob for the good we had together, I will sob for our wreckage, I will sob for the teenage love pried out of our shaking palms, and I will sob for what could’ve been. I will sob and sob, and he will do nothing but hold me like water in his hands. 

We counted down the days for months. Our routines consisted of watching movies, dancing, fighting in his car, and lots of driving. Last week, we took a trip to Montreal. On our first night, I stumbled home a mess. He held me on his lap in the crowded backseat, laughing at my drunken pickup lines. He slipped his arm around my waist in the elevator up to our rented apartment, and I told him that I loved him. 

“You always take care of me,” I mumbled to him, my head resting back on his shoulder, my lips grazing his ear. 

I didn’t sleep that night. I watched the sun pour in through our bedroom window, the birds shitting on our balcony. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the morning light tinting his skin gold. When we’re like this, it’s so easy to imagine a future together. 

Morning caffeine. One-bedroom apartment. Open windows. 

But I have an overactive imagination. 

I tell him, “In some ways, this is the best-case scenario.” 

“How so?” he replies. 

“We’re kind of forced to figure out who we are without each other. You know how some couples stay together their entire adolescent and adult lives—they grow together. But what happens when someone cheats, or someone has to move away for some irresistible job opportunity? Everything that they’ve ever known is just—gone.” I pause, contemplating if I have the balls to say what’s next. 

“If we end up liking each other as adults, I mean, if we’re in the same place at the same time, if the timing is right…” I take a breath. “What I’m saying, is I guess I wouldn’t be mad if I ended up marrying you.” 

He smiles. “I wouldn’t be mad if I ended up marrying you either.” 

I have become accustomed to hating my exes. My breakups were always messy, painful, bitter. I never lingered at the exit for long—the ease in which I could get under a new warm body was something I prided myself upon. I pumped my veins full of anger, relishing in the fun it was to flip through past pictures and rip them apart. Without this anger, my pain had no direction. Instead, faced with a love cut short, I can’t find solace in hurting him back—every coping strategy I have ever known has been rendered futile. 

He will inevitably forget my face, the sound of my voice, the feeling of my hands on his skin. As much as it hurts, I still want nothing more than for him to experience love in the greatest capacity possible. I hope that he will fall in love with someone just as kind and true and good as he is—even if it isn’t me. 

We spent our last day together wrestling with time. It was nice. We hiked. We ate sushi. We watched a movie. Went for a long walk. Our parents were calling us home, but he insisted on one last stop. He drove with one hand—something I could never do—manoeuvring his way through traffic while his right rested on my lap, tightly linked in my fingers. He pulled over across from my street, turning on his hazards. On my right was a park bench.

A year ago, he had come to my birthday party as a plus one. I knew him as the cute boy from English class. I freaked out over the puke all over my wood-stained floors, and as I hyperventilated, he told me not to worry. He asked if I wanted to go on a walk. We stumbled through my neighborhood, laughing and flirting, until we ended up—here. 

Tonight, he takes my hand as he opens the car door, and says, “Let’s sit for a while?” I notice that the lamp which had been there for years had gone out. Probably bad wiring. 

We sit in the dark as he attempts to calm my breathing.

He has never been much of a crier. 

He asks to walk me home one last time. 

He says goodbye to my mother, her hands rubbing his back. 

I beg him not to go. He collapses in my arms, his body shaking. 

“I love you.” he says, my face in his hands. 

I turn away. I can’t look back.