You and Trevor were sitting on the fire escape, smoking together. The cool night’s breeze blew your hair, and you tucked it behind your ear. His arm fell around your shoulders and you pushed it off, taking a drag. The lines weren’t clear. One minute, it was like you wanted to be his wife, the next you two were just friends.

He had no fucking idea what you were thinking- he never did. The closest he had ever seen you to vulnerable was when you were sleeping, which was saying something, considering the fact that you slept with a switchblade. You were almost the perfect girl. You got along with his family, your parents owned a Chop Shop on the shitty side of Brooklyn so you knew your way around a car. You put up with Phoebe’s jokes, you were like a part of the family.

But you were so damn confusing. He just couldn’t figure you out. He’d gotten advice from Gary, and from his mom, and from Phoebe- hers had been to just kiss you. He had not followed it. He had tried friends’ advice, uncle Ray’s advice. None of it worked. So, he had just resigned himself to whatever this limbo was. They weren’t dating- that would be too committal for you- but there was a sort of understanding. He didn’t get romantic with anyone else, and neither did you.

You took another drag and blew it at the sky, passing the cigarette back to Trevor. “I think I love you.” He said, in a fit of what he couldn’t decide was stupidity or bravery. “I think love is bullshit. We’re not in love- too young.” You responded, looking through the railing and down at the city beneath.

New York City never sleeps, you thought with a little snort. It was little more than a puff of air, but it was as closest as he would get to hearing a genuine laughter. He wanted to argue that you were both seventeen, that he knew what he wanted. But he knew it was useless. You’d just find another bullshit excuse. So he sighed, and took another drag.