stutter stories

First impressions

The first time we met, you decided you will never like me. I get drunk too easily, I smoke too much, and I’m obnoxiously loud. I’m constantly thinking about food, and I always seem to say the wrong things. My taste in music was weird, and my words were caustic as can be.
The first time we were alone together, you decided you will never see me as more than a friend. I made you smile and laugh, and I told you stories, then you made up your mind that even though I was interesting and fun, I was far too damaged to be worth your time. My head was messy and my heart was heavy, and my smile was broken. I scared you with the tales I told, and you took two steps backwards, intending never to touch my toxic skin.
The first time you saw me cry, you decided you will never love me. I was too fragile and vulnerable, and why was I crying to you, a stranger, anyway? I was far more twisted than you thought, and also possibly contagious in my misery. You started pacing back and forth, wanting to console me, but also wanting to get as far away as possible.
But the first time we met, I decided that I will always like you. You seemed steadfast, serious, and annoyingly sober. You looked as though you were stable enough to break through anything in your path.
The first time we were alone together, I decided to take a chance and see if you weren’t like most people. I showed you my scars, and a flinch of your face told me everything I needed to know about you: you weren’t ready for me. You didn’t see anything other than a damaged little girl lost in the woods. But I persisted because I saw something in you, something that draws me in. Stubbornly, I shared my secrets, even as I saw you staring to drift away.
The first time you saw me cry, I reached out and tried to grasp your hand. Your fingers swiftly slipped away, untangling themselves from mine. I wanted to believe that you’ll return, with all your warmth and depth that slipped by your defenses every once in a while. But, as always, I was alone again, with nothing to hold on to but a memory.
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