Sorry.

It started before there was even an 'us'.

The sorries, that is.

The first time we were together and both knew we liked each other, your hand accidentally brushed mine as you reached for your backpack.

"I'm sorry."

The day you asked me to be your girlfriend, we were walking down the hall and as you sidestepped a pile of junk you fell into me.

"I'm sorry."

Our one year anniversary we were walking around the town and you stepped on the back of my heel, causing me to stumble forwards a couple of steps.

"I'm sorry."

I learned that these sorries weren't in fact genuine, just things you said because you thought it would be fitting. Because of that, I took it with a grain of salt .The sorries weren’t apologies, I knew that. I’d become accustom to this new definition of something I’d had known for my entire life. As the months went by, “I’m sorry” and “I love you” became essentially the same thing. It wasn’t set in stone or anything, but the understanding was there.

One oddly warm day in November Mike stopped by after school. He was wearing my favorite shirt – a white polo with maroon stripes. He smelled more musky than usual, which should have been a sign. The walked up wringing his hands together as if he was extremely nervous about something. He stopped in the middle of the walkway and looked up at me. I was sitting at the top of the stairs, about 3 feet higher. The sun was coming down in beams, randomly landing on his foot, left hand, and right over his heart. He looked up at me and the vibes coming off of him hurt.
He slowly took the stairs and sat down next to me. He grabbed my hand and kissed me cheek. He sat there for a few minutes, probably both realizing this would be the last time that we were, well “we”.

Words were spoken, tears fell, promises made.

As he walked away, I started to sob.

He stopped, turned around, and offered his hands.

“I’m sorry.”