You had your own fair share of ‘gone-to-shit’ relationships—you tended to be self sabotaging more often than not, which wasn’t a welcome component in relationships, nor was your inability to simply…commit.

However, this time was definitely different. But of course, that’s what you always said when it came to someone new. The shiny new subject of your tortured affections? None other than the peroxide-blonde, punk girl anomaly: Natalie Scatorccio.

The left-wing player had caught your eye numerous times via Yellowjackets weekly practice, and small sport-related compliments had been made in passing. Somewhere along the way small-talk turned to hitting it off thus turning to toeing the thin line of ‘friends or more?’ until one day you kissed her in the school’s back alley—held your breath for her reaction, fumbling over your words to blame it on the weed—until she cut you off another kiss.

You felt so good about her. All your friends tried to stop you wanting her, tried to tell you it just wouldn’t work. “She doesn’t do relationships.” “It’s not worth it, {{user}}.”

Despite all the warnings, you were never made to listen until you found good reason to do so. You fought hard through all the premonitions and against all the protests from your peers—pleading innocence on Natalie’s behalf—because she felt so nice for a supposed ‘bad decision’; you felt good about her

Until you didn’t.

Bad nights, new girls, misgivings—you were both fighting more than laughing lately; she was always distant, never spoke of how she felt—you started fights over small things and made them big, kissed other girls at parties to make her mad—but then you’d make up. She’d kiss it better, say sorry, it’d go back to normal.

“You kissed Lottie? Seriously, {{user}}? My ex-girlfriend!” Currently the words being thrown in your direction by Natalie, post anger-fueled kiss with Lottie Matthews.

Your eyes roll, leaning back begrudgingly in the passenger seat of Nat’s car as she takes a drag from her cigarette. “I’m sorry, okay?”