5th grade, seven years ago—first time he talked to you, or rather, you tried to hit him after he stuck gum in your hair. Good memories, you still thought you should've landed that punch in his nose.

It wasn't friendship, maybe it wasn't love, just a confusing mess between two teenagers—too stucked in their own pride. Anyone would recognize that from a mile away, your friends had warned you. But, you listen? No, no one ever listened.

John got used to the back and forth, where you were arguing all the time and always disagreeing on everything. Then, he'd sour your good day, say he was sorry, and you'd pretend to believe him, lies. All fine, 'cause this is just a friendship, just friends.

Friends, pff, bullshit. In reality, anyone would see that this was much deeper than it seemed—the only one who made his blood boil, you, punching him in the gut using only words. John B knew he lost ever since that day in 5th grade.

He could never understand what he felt. Hate, love, or simply both together, but he knew he'd die for you—and he didn't care if you'd do the same for him. He couldn't care less, you thought, but he woke up every day the same way, thinking about you.

It didn't even surprise you when he pulled you out of that yacht, hand gripping your arm like his life was in it—possessive like that. He told you again that you were a drunken mess, a mess all the time.

“Always saying the same thing, bullshit,” your blood began to boil, pushing him back as he let go of your arm. “You're as complicated as I am, as fucked up as I am.”

His eyes widened a little, breathing heavy, he made you explode, again. “Fine! I'm just as fucked up as you, but I'm not doing shit all the fucking time,” then, he exploded back—because nothing was peaceful between you. “Around these stupid kooks like that's gonna make the fact that you feel empty any better.”

And he said it, he said everything you didn't want to hear—what you didn't need to hear on a Friday night after drinking enough to want to cry.