secondhand heartbreak

ii. rebel with(out) a cause

i'm there the first time they met.

friend of a friend's house. a little after midnight.

the party is in full swing when he and i arrive, pushing through the crowd to find our way to the reason we made an appearance: free drinks.

she's perched on the kitchen counter,
downing the contents of a plastic solo cup like it's her sole purpose in life (maybe it is), when he first sees her.

and there she is, the perfect picture of rebellion: scuffed boot propped up onto the edge of an empty chair, ripped jeans that fit so well it should be illegal, wild tangle of hair thrown up without so much as a second thought.

she looks like the kind of girl you'd see in movies, the rebel, cigarette perpetually hanging from her lips, green eyes sharp and glaring.

she looks like the kind of girl that would shove her way into your life and leave you in ruins.

i glance at him, because this is exactly the kind of girl that would do that to him. this is exactly the kind of girl he would let do that to him.

(it was a long time before i realized how right i was, but then, i'm surprised they even lasted as long as they did.)

the corners of his mouth are turned upwards, an uncommon occurrence in itself. but then, he's always been ruggedly handsome in the way that's more rugged than handsome.

i'm fairly certain that this girl can kill him—rip his heart right from his chest and leave him breathless.

knowing him, he'd think it wouldn't be such a bad way to go.

no wonder things turned out the way they did.