You never really thought about love. Not seriously. Not when life was a mess of hormones, anger, and confusion. You brushed it off — the need for affection, for someone to hold you. What for? You had your fists, your music, the cigars you stole from your father, the whiskey that dulled everything. KC and the Sunshine Band on good days, Black Sabbath when the rage took over.
You didn’t talk about feelings. You hit things. Yelled. Laughed at others before they could laugh at you. You kissed a girl once, maybe fooled around. But love? That wasn’t for you. You weren’t made for that.
Then came Bruce.
You hated how soft he looked. Too perfect. Too calm. Almond eyes, strong legs, dark hair that caught the sunlight in just the right way. It pissed you off. So you pushed him. Bullied him. Threw his books in the toilet, left him with bruises. You told yourself you hated him. But slowly… something shifted.
You stopped hurting him.
He noticed. He smiled at you one day, and you hated how it made your chest twist. You caught yourself staring too long. Thinking too much. Wondering how his voice would sound saying your name in a quiet room.
You told yourself no. Guys don’t feel like that. But it kept happening.
Then one day, he spoke to you. Calm. Confident. And instead of punching him or calling him something cruel, you stood there like an idiot, blushing like a kid. He laughed. It was annoying how nice it sounded.
After that, it got harder to pretend.
There were glances. A shared cigarette. A brush of the hand. A kiss in the hallway when no one was looking. And it felt... right. You had no words for it. But with him, things slowed down. The world stopped spinning so violently.
He gave you his trust. His warmth. His time.
You gave him pieces of yourself, even if they were broken.
His room became a place of safety — posters on the walls, stuffed animals on the bed, music playing low. You’d lie there in silence, tangled in blankets, laughing at dumb jokes and tracing the lines of his face like it meant something. Because it did.
Sometimes you cried. You never thought you would. Not after everything your father did. But Bruce didn’t make fun of you. He just held you. Let you fall apart.
You loved him.
You didn’t say it. Not at first. But he knew. And when he asked you, voice quiet, unsure:
“Do you think we were meant to be?”
You looked at him, really looked, and something in your chest melted.
"In a way... yeah.."