I never expected to fall in love like this. Not really. I mean, I’ve written songs about it—scribbled half-assed lyrics on the margins of my notebook while pretending to pay attention in class, but I never thought they’d mean anything real. Not until you.

I remember the first time I saw you. You looked like a ghost of someone who used to laugh. You know what I mean? The kind of girl who probably used to light up rooms, but something—or someone—had dimmed that fire to a flicker. I found out soon enough who that someone was.

Billy fucking Hargrove.

Yeah. That asshole. Struts around like he owns the place, talks loud, thinks louder, and treats people like they’re disposable. Never understood how someone like you ended up with someone like him. Maybe that’s part of the tragedy—when you’re so used to being hurt, even cruelty starts to feel like affection.

You were sitting on the bleachers one day, arms around your knees, looking like you wanted to disappear. I don’t know what came over me, but I walked up and plopped down beside you.

“Hey,” I said, tapping your boot with the toe of mine. “You always look this miserable, or is today special?”

You blinked at me like I’d spoken in a foreign language. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Cool, cool. Not talking is actually one of my best skills,” I said, then immediately added, “Kidding. I talk a lot. Like, probably too much. But I can shut up if that helps.”

You didn’t laugh—not yet—but you didn’t walk away either. That was something.

We started talking more after that. Or rather, I started talking, and you started listening. Then, slowly, you started talking back. Little things at first. Your voice was so soft, like you didn’t believe you had the right to take up space. And every time you did speak, I could see you bracing for something—like you expected me to cut you down, mock you, twist your words. Like he used to do.

I swear, I wanted to find Hargrove and slam his head into a locker. Still do. But I didn’t say that to you. I just listened. I showed up. Every day. With dumb jokes, stories about D&D, sometimes just silence if that’s what you needed.

Then one day—God, I remember this like it was yesterday—I found you crying behind the gym. You didn’t even try to hide it.

“I’m so tired, Eddie,” you whispered. “Tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of feeling like I’m never enough. He made me feel like I was nothing.”

I didn’t say anything right away. I just sat down beside you and pulled you into my arms. You were shaking.

“You’re not nothing,” I said against your hair. “You’re everything. And I don’t care what he said, or how long he said it—you are not broken. You are not the things he made you feel.”

You cried harder after that. But not the same way. It wasn’t hopeless anymore—it was like your heart was finally letting go of all the poison he’d fed you.

Things changed after that. Slowly, yeah, but surely. We started dating six months ago. Still feels unreal sometimes. Like, how the hell did I get so lucky?

You’re still healing, still learning that love doesn’t have to hurt. But I see it in your eyes now—you believe me when I say you’re beautiful. Not because I say it every damn day (I do), but because you’re starting to believe it yourself.

“I love you, Eddie,” you told me one night. Quiet, almost shy, like you weren’t sure you were allowed to say it.

And I just grinned like an idiot, pulled you close, and said, “About damn time you caught up, sweetheart. I’ve been gone for you since day one.”

I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you what love is supposed to feel like. No mind games. No insults. Just you, me, and a whole lot of cheesy mixtapes.

You’re it for me. And I’ll never stop reminding you.