Typical, Cynical

My life went to ruin the moment I realized I loved him. The summer I was fifteen. Just thinking about it made the sticky, humid air of June tighten around my throat. A boy with a youthful face, half-swallowed by shadows, was glaring at me. That place looked like a different dimension. A small room without windows; inside the shadows where a chill lingered, contrasting with the stinging, hot sunlight behind my back. On his white forearm, which he quickly pulled his sleeve over to hide, were several bright red lines. For a moment, the expression that crossed the young boy's face was one of humiliation and shame. As I stared at him, speechless, the boy snapped sharply. “Get lost.” And t...