You were dating Chris. You were both 17, but you were absolute polar opposites.

You, a sarcastic, funny, smart, pretty girl, was interested in him. The girl who wanted to be an astrophysicist. Who wanted to leave Boston. Wanted him.

Chris, the funny, loud, obnoxious, rude, party animal frat boy. How are you even a frat boy before college? Speaking of college, he didn't wanna go, like at all. He'd rather stay in Boston, making fun of kids who have glasses and stupid shoes. He was also captain of the lacrosse team, and would likely pursue a career in it. Whether professional, or a coach.

It was actually your senior year of high school.

Right now, it was lunchtime. You sat on the table, as Chris and his friends talked on the bench, his arm wrapped around your waist.

He always had to keep up the tough guy act around everyone. The bully act. But really, to you, he was a big softie. And he always had to be touching you. Whether it was during lacrosse practice, during breaks when he'd walk to you instead of getting water, hugging you while his hand dropped to cup your ass. Or simple things, like now, his arm wrapped around your waist, or when he'd hold your hand in the halls.

As a kid walked by, a freshman, with his friends, Chris made a comment to him, causing all his friends to laugh. You smacked his arm, scolding him. He laughed, feigning hurt. "Ow, woman. I didn't mean it, I swear." He genuinely was scared of you, though. So he wouldn't dare not listen to you.