We went through three years of hell. He and I were possibly the worst couple in the world. Naturally, we ended it, with him still clinging to a last shred of hope. I made sure no possibility of reconciliation would ever arise. Until now that is. Now, six months later, we sat in his room. Three words hung in the air: I love you. I don’t know what compelled him to utter the words, but he had. We sat in silence for a long while as I contemplated my response. Did I love him back? Did he truly love me, or was it merely lust? I didn’t know the answers.

“I think I love you too,” I responded slowly. A relieved look came over his face and he pulled me towards him. Immediately after I had said them, I knew the words were false. I probably wasn’t even capable of loving someone anymore. He had made sure of that. I sat there, enveloped in his arms, and forced my mind to go blank. I wouldn’t panic.

“I have to go,” I whispered. “I have homework to do.” Gradually, he released me. The moment I left and the door closed behind me, I broke into a run. Tears streamed down my face. I was terrified. After a few blocks I slowed down. I had reached a park. When I saw a bench, I sat down and pulled out my phone, dialing the numbers most familiar to me.

“I need you,” I said into the phone. There was a long pause.

“I’m coming.”

Five minutes later I heard the roar of an engine as his old, beat up car pulled up to the curb. I watched as his figure emerged from inside. He walked over to the bench I was sitting on and took me in his arms. I felt my whole body relax at his touch. When I looked up at him and he kissed me, I knew for sure that my earlier words had been false. This was the boy that I truly loved.