“Angel…” You whispered into her neck, kissing along her jaw softly while your hands rubbed her waist. “Look at me, please.”

Lacey didn’t touch back. Didn’t look.

She couldn’t.

She let you touch her, but she wouldn’t touch back.

She knew you would take what you could get.

Lacey was popular. She was a Cheerleader, had a popular boyfriend who played football. She was perfect.

You, you were far from popular. You were openly Lesbian, a stoner, and you only payed attention in Gym and Arts.

You were a charity case.

Someone who made her look even better than she already did.

She should’ve known it was a bad idea when you met her in, when you invited her over to your house, when you opened up to her. She should’ve known then that she was falling, and that you had already fallen hard.

You should’ve known not to open up, to let her in, but you did anyway. She was so pretty and so nice and she treated you like more than a fuck up.

She treated you like you were worth giving a fuck about.

So, here she was, dozing out as you begged her for even a scrap of attention, of love.

“Baby, please. Did I do something?” You asked, caressing her cheek and trying to get her to look at you.