I was yours and you were mine in the cool breeze of April. We intertwined fingers (you always rubbed my thumb) on our first date when we let sand get stuck in our socks. It wasn’t our first kiss, but it was the first time I heard “I love you” slip between your chipped tooth.

You wrapped me up in your arms and favorite Quiksilver hoodie and your lips traced mine with “goodnight” and “good morning” every weekend. After a month of constant “I love you”s, I finally returned you three syllables like an overdue library book. I met your older sisters and little brother (he jumped on my thigh and told me I was too pretty for you) and your parents (your mom was drunk and dancing and your dad told me he thought you were gay.) I knew I’d be yours for as long as you wanted me.

The days when you cradled me in your lap and kissed the space between my eyebrows were hard to come by in the chaos of June. I switched your hoodie for your favorite quarter-zip (the hoodie didn’t smell like your pillow anymore) and found myself gnawing on the sleeves whenever you weren’t around. I was yours, and I was losing you as mine.

You probably don’t know just how much I adored you, because if you did I don’t think you would’ve left…at least not so easily. From the start, I was your skipping stone. I knew you’d toss me along until you grew bored enough to continue your walk along the shore.