I couldn't care less.
He was so young. He felt young. He breathed young. I wanted to dip myself into him. I wanted to suck his youth dry. It was three years ago. a lot changed since that time. Both of us have gotten over. Grew up. And we seem to smile to each other at those rare times when we meet.
He's not young anymore. Those short years made him old. He is older than he looks. He looks 30. He is 25 in fact. But still when he looks at me, there's that razorblade shine in his eyes. That didn't disappear with the years. He looks at me like he wants me. And, well, I want him too. And can't hide it.
It's not love. It's very far from any other feeling I felt before. It is some kind of an animal attraction. A force that throws people into each other's arms without considering the consequences.
He used to call me. He does not, now. Because he doesn't need my help. Like he needed it before. He doesn't need me to get out of that abyss of uncertainty and self-neglect. He has just gotten used to the feeling. Self-destruction. Overconfidence. Wit. Strength. Sharp tongue. Stupid smile. Uncertainty. Despair. That's all about him. And that gets nowhere close to him.
This is my story.