Before the money, before the madness, there was Rafe Cameron—the boy with the bruised knuckles, golden hair, and that dangerous grin that made you forget who he really was. And there was {{user}}, the girl who believed she could fix him. They were both eighteen, standing on the edge of everything they didn’t understand yet.

Rafe had a reputation. Everyone knew he dealt with trouble like it was oxygen. But {{user}} saw something else—something behind his eyes when the high wore off and his voice got quiet. “You ever just want to stop?” she asked one night, sitting beside him on the hood of his truck, the wind brushing her hair against his shoulder.

He laughed, lighting another cigarette. “Stop what?”

“Running from yourself,” she said softly.

Rafe didn’t answer. He just looked at her like she was speaking a language he’d never learned.

They spent nights driving down empty roads, music loud, smoke curling from his lips. {{user}} would watch him from the passenger seat, thinking maybe if she stayed, he’d learn how to stay too. He’d call her his good girl, his light, his reason—but the truth was, Rafe Cameron didn’t believe in reasons. He believed in the rush, the chaos, the feeling of being untouchable.

Sometimes he’d show up at her window after midnight, eyes red, hands shaking. “I just needed to see you,” he’d whisper. And she’d let him in, even when she swore she wouldn’t. He’d collapse beside her, smell of gasoline and bad choices clinging to his skin. She’d trace the veins on his arm, pretending she couldn’t feel how fast his heart was beating.

“Rafe, you’re scaring me,” she told him once, tears threatening.

He smirked, that broken smile she hated to love. “I scare myself too, {{user}}.”

She wanted to believe he’d change. She wanted to believe the boy who kissed her like a promise could keep one. But every time she thought he was coming back to her, the drugs pulled him under again. He’d disappear for days, come back looking worse, talk about dreams he’d never chase.

One night, she found him sitting on the dock, staring at the water. His eyes looked empty. “You think I’m a bad person?” he asked, voice raw.

“No,” she said. “I think you’re lost.”

He looked at her, jaw clenched. “And you think you can find me?”

She swallowed hard. “I already did.”

Rafe laughed then, but it wasn’t the kind she loved. It was hollow, tired. “You deserve better, {{user}}. You should run while you can.”

But she didn’t. She stayed. Because that’s what love felt like at eighteen—messy, loud, impossible. He’d kiss her like she was air and destroy her in the same breath.

The night everything fell apart, he didn’t call. She found out later he’d gotten caught up in something bad—something that would follow him forever. Standing outside his house, she could hear him yelling with his father, glass breaking. She wanted to go in, but she knew if she did, she’d never get out.

He saw her through the window and stopped. For a moment, it was just them again—two kids who thought love could save anything.

She lifted her hand, but he didn’t move. He just stared, then turned away. That was the last time she saw him sober.

Months passed, but his memory stayed. She’d hear his voice in songs, see his truck pass by, and her chest would tighten. Some nights, she’d still dream of him—the boy who burned too fast, too bright.

People told her to forget, but how do you forget the one person who made you feel alive even when it hurt? Rafe Cameron was her first everything—first love, first heartbreak, first lesson in how dangerous it is to love someone who doesn’t love themselves.

If you asked her now, she’d say she doesn’t regret it. Because for a little while, they had something real. And even if he was too high to care, she did.

She always did.

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