My focus was dedicated entirely to the feeling of your head on my shoulder, your hand in mine, the way you were breathing.
And after the play was over, your father drove us back to your house and the plan was for me to sleep over. I had no blankets, only an uncomfortable sleeping bag and one small pillow. You wanted me to sleep in your bed with you and I refused at first. Contrary to popular belief, I was not a whore, not even for you.
You won eventually, in spite of my protests. I couldn't deny you anything when you looked at me like that. I feared my heart would break.
So we slept together, in the literal sense, for many reasons. It was midnight. We were tired. Your parents were across the hall.
At three o'clock that morning, I woke up from the cold. You had the blankets wrapped entirely around you. I crawled out of your bed and slid down to the floor, into the uncomfortable sleeping bag, so as to avoid disturbing you.
I woke up four hours later to find you studying my face. You told me you had been worried when you did not find me next to you.
I don't think I'd ever been happier.
And when I told you I was sorry for everything... I meant it. It's just that "everything" meant "fucking it up because I loved you best."
You were my favorite mistake.