The Truth About Tomorrow by B. Celeste
Age is just a number.
Just like he’s just a boy and I’m just a girl.
Except that’s not true, is it?
Because fifteen may be a number, but it’s bigger than that. Bigger than us.
It’s a number that separates us.
An excuse that keeps us apart.
But I’m not willing to give in until I get what I want.
After all, how many other girls can bring a grown man to his knees with one little smile?
Charlie / 16
The hands gripping my waist are the wrong size. They’re too eager, too desperate as they trail around my back and cup my butt. I don’t like them. I even push them away. But they always come back, gripping, kneading, demanding.
He wouldn’t do this to me.
His hands are perfect.
But he’s not here anymore.
The music gets louder, but not enough to drown out the memories I have of him—the feel of soft kisses trailing down my naked back, or a hand brushing through my hair, or hushed murmurs promising me we’d be okay.
I can’t do this.
Placing my hands over the stranger’s, I try losing myself to the music. His groin to mine, our hips swaying. It’s not enough though.
I need something else. Something more.
Just one more shot.
Just one more pill.
We used to promise each other one more day, because we knew it was wrong. Neither of us could give each other up. We were addicted.
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