For fuck's sake. I really thought we might be something.

I haven't written in this since J because I never really needed to get stuff off my chest like this before. I mean, there was the ex, the girl, but she was never really a thing. I mean, she was, because we saw each other for nine months, but I wasn't the one who came out of that with a broken heart.

But you. You knew. You knew about her and you knew me. I thought you did, at least.

Why the hell would you do this? I'm so upset and so angry and I don't even know where to start or how this is going to end. I mean. It has already ended. I guess you just go back to your school and your friends and your car and your money and your wonderful fucking perfect life and the long lines of girls you manage to charm into your bed and that's it. And I go back to mine.

I just don't understand. I got it in Auckland; I got why you made a move. You were lonely and drunk and I was familiar and about to get with someone else. I yelled at you for that but I still loved you (as I still love you) because I know you and I thought I understood. I was content to be your friend.

Even that night, I didn't understand. I should have taken it as a bad sign that P had been there the night before I had; that even though she cheated on you and ended up dating your best friend, you picked her above me. You'd still rather see her. And she clearly still wants to see you.

And then when you tried to cuddle me. And I didn't know what to think but I let it happen because it felt so good and so right and I've wanted you for so long and it was all finally happening. And it wasn't like it was the first time, back last year, in the back of your car, drunk and high and clumsy and rough. I made most of the moves. I took off my dress; I tried to undo your belt but couldn't figure it out; I took off my bra (incidentally, you paid almost zero attention to my breasts, only my neck). You took off my underwear, eventually, after you'd come, but.

I think I've figured it out though. Why you did it, why that all happened. I think it's a combination of three things. Yes.

Firstly, you were, for want of a better word, horny. You hadn't got any in a month and you know I get like that too (although you also knew that I'd just got some vis-a-vis C the Australian... you've never mentioned it since that night, prefer to pretend it didn't happen?). This, I understand. 

Secondly, you needed comfort. I don't mean because the city is fucked and your school is fucked and and, I mean in that you were ridiculous levels of lonely up there (I get that, trust me) and you just wanted to hold someone and be held and have human contact. This is why I had to make most of the moves and this is why you cuddled me the next morning. This, I even understand.

Thirdly. Worst. You wanted to get at her. P, the first love, the one you just can't let go. Fuck knows why, she's kinda pathetic actually. But hey, we all make stupid decisions. I don't know why you picked me, maybe I was the only one fucking stupid enough to get with you, the only girl you could get to jump when you clicked your fingers. But the joy was absolutely evident when you realised news had spread (as you'd hoped it had by practically getting with me in front of G; I played right into your hands by making as much noise as I did, huh?) and that both she and her friend had started poking me on facebook.

Actually. All of this is forgivable. Or would be. If you hadn't acted like a total fucking axe wound afterwards. You know, I would have been fine if that had just happened and we had dealt with it and maybe been a little awkward but still been friends. I gave you a fucking out. And you said no, you said you'd prefer it wasn't just a one time thing. You wanted to know what I thought of you and you told me you wanted me and you made me think there was more to this. You said you wanted to see me and you said you wanted to teach me to play COD and you said you wanted to come over when I said I was still in bed in my underwear at 2pm. And you made me think there was something in this.

I wanted you, Will. I wanted there to be an us. I wanted you to hold my fucking hand and put your arm around my waist when we walked. I wanted to be able to kiss you whenever I wanted. I wanted to kiss you in your car and I wanted you to introduce me to your parents like you were proud and I wanted to watch movies with you. I would have watched the Godfather 3 and not said a word, that's how much I wanted us. I wanted you to tease me for listening to Taylor Swift and I wanted to introduce you to the genius of the Rolling Stones (because although you like them you don't have their best songs) and I wanted to go on road trips and double dates and I wanted you to text me good morning and I wanted you to miss me when I wasn't there and I wanted to wake up with you because early morning cuddling is one of my favourite things in the whole entire world, but most especially when it's with you. I wanted to meet your friends as your girlfriend. I wanted you to take me out to dinner and remember when we'd been together six months and take me to your formal and take you to mine. I wanted to lose my virginity to you. I wanted us to do it for the first time one night and I might have had one glass of wine because I was nervous and we would have made dinner together and it would have been cute but I wouldn't have eaten much because I would be nervous and also worried about my stomach. And I would have worn new underwear and you would have told me I was beautiful and it would probably have hurt but we would have done it slowly and you would have done that thing you did where you'd stop and just hold my face and kiss me like it was the only thing you could ever think of doing. And then I wanted to have all kinds of sex with you. I wanted shower sex and morning sex and standing up sex and sex in every room in your house and sex outside and sex in your car and rough fast sex and long, slow, lazy-Sunday-morning sex and sex when you were sad and sex when we were both happy and sex in every position and sex in front of COD because I "distracted" you and sex instead of homework and quickie sex while I was making dinner and loving sex after you'd met my family and sex on a beach and in a park and sex in your friend's house and my friend's house and hotel sex. I wanted you to fuck me on the floor. I wanted you.

Even if we hadn't lasted. I wanted us to have a chance. But clearly you didn't.

I can't really believe that this is still going on. Honestly. I thought the matter was over. Done with.
Until last night.

Look, I almost get why you didn't come. Why you said you couldn't make it. And I think I know, knew, whatever, you well enough to get that, at least partially, you feel like you were being the nice guy by not coming. By not making the first time we'd seen each other since that morning happen while we were in a room with seven mutual friends, who all think they know what happened. And who, to my horror, as I said in my texts, do. Do know.

Some, at least. Not all - the only people who know all of it are us, and then I guess even then we only know half each - but enough. Enough for me to be genuinely angry and upset when I got cornered by R, S and V last night and asked about it. Enough for me to text you at midnight, even though I'd sworn to myself that I wouldn't, ever again. That, the possibility that these people, some of whom I like and respect, some of whom I don't mind, most of whom I have to deal with for at least two more years - the fact that they know more than they could have guessed merely from Facebook updates - that upset me. And I know you really don't care about my feelings any more but I - I don't even know.

I suppose I just hoped that you might, even though you don't respect me, maybe respect yourself and your own word enough to keep your promise. I suppose I hoped, stupidly, naively, like the sixteen year old I am (oh yeah, I hope that day was fun for you, because one thing I do know is that you had my birth date memorised from just about the day we met), that you'd do the one thing I asked from you. That you'd do the one, the only thing you'd said you would. That for once, your own feelings, your compulsive need to be the centre of attention, your inability to just man up and accept the consequences of your actions, might come second to the realisation that there are other stakeholders (and yes, that is a buzzword).

If you felt the need to tell C, because I know you're into that whole Catholic confess your sins type thing, then I can almost-actually, you know what, no. I'm not going to give you that kind of out. Frankly, you trying to get some ass, from the girl you broke up with for me, for the last couple of months you are here, is less important than the shit that I'll have to put up with from everyone involved, everyone who knows both of us (personally or by word of mouth) for the next two years if this gets out. And the amount that they know - about that morning, about what happened (although they think we just kissed), that it didn't work out - means that it can only have come from you.

Because even though I should really be the one doing all of this, as not only the girl, as not only the one who got rejected, as not only the fifteen year old (as opposed to your 18); even though I'd be the one who people would expect to go around crying about it, even though that's society's expectation; I'm not. My friends know it didn't work out; I told them I'd promised not to talk about it, and despite their best efforts, I didn't. Not on my lowest days, not in a massive heart-to-heart with T, not when they got me drunk, not yet, not ever.

Out of the two of us, J, I'd say I've been the one who handled this better. Sure, I'm typing it all away into an anonymous blog; but that's the beauty of it all, don't you see? Nobody reads this, not you, not our friends... I'm keeping my promise, but I'm not going insane. Because sometimes, J, just sometimes, we don't get to choose the way that's best for ourselves. Sometimes we have to think a little less about ourselves, care a little less about our own self esteem, about what's easy; think a little more about other people. About promises we've made.

I guess that's ultimately the mistake I made. A little too much self esteem, a little too little self respect. Not enough self respect to realise that you chose her once, and that you loved her, and that even if your relationship was over, even if you weren't over her at all, even if you had broken up with her as opposed to the other way around, you should wait more than two days before jumping into (or onto) bed with someone else. I didn't place enough value in my own reputation, what I really wanted. Because for a short time, what I wanted was to be wanted by you. Utterly. Entirely.

So is this it? I don't know. I really don't. I mean, I know you're going off to China soon (how could I not...) and then that you're not doing anything for the six months after. However, you'll likely turn up, to help coach juniors, to help judge seniors. Or will you? Will you ever man up and accept that yeah, you behaved like a complete arsehole, yeah, I don't like you because of that? Or will easy-way-out-J come into play again; will you give it up altogether? I can almost see you doing that; I know you don't like to be beaten, ever, and likelihood is that either, or both, T and I will be in the national team next year. Something you never managed. Us, going to worlds, a year before you even went to nationals. Mind you, even if you do, you know you'll still get dragged in by E, G, N or whoever's running the show by then (maybe even S and R) to help.

And by then, I'll be seventeen. And a half. And by then, I'll be ready. I'm... in repair. I'm not together, but I'm getting there. I hope you are, too.

Tonight, I'm not going to talk to you.

'I'll text or facebook you this evening.
Don't text back, or she'll cut my balls off.'
Look, I know, okay? I get it. She's your girlfriend. You pick her. I come second.
Except I kind of don't.
What kind of boyfriend spends his nights having text/virtual sex with another girl?
A girl he's never touched more than an awkward, two-second hug under the eyes of mutual friends?
What kind of a relationship is that?

But anyway. Yes. She's your girlfriend. Whatever.
I know the sex isn't that good with her.
More than that, I know that even the idea of the sex we could have makes you harder than the real-life, actual sex you have with her.
I'm the one you dream about. You've admitted it.
What kind of a relationship is that?

Do you really think you're going to last four months?
That's about as likely as me not replying when you email me tonight.