“You’re too late to be my first love, but you will be my last.”

Why does she say that as if it’s romantic?

We have known each other since we were 16.

I have loved her since the first time she looked at me. She is my first and my last.

It is a soul crushing to know that she didn’t really notice me until I was all she had left.

The man she loved, her “one true soulmate”, left her behind feeling worthless and small, but thank god I was there to rescue her. Because I am always there.

Always there like the yellow Skittle in the bottom of the bag.

Like the tray of oatmeal raisin cookies at a child’s birthday party. Being “always there” isn’t heroic it means you are still lying in wait because no body cared enough to picked you fist.

It means that even though I am loved, in a way, I am not loved in the way I yearn for.

The love she gives me is not a reciprocation of the love I give her.

She didn’t choose me, she settled.

She’s not happy, she’s content.

Being last is not romantic.

Being last feels like I wasn’t chosen at all.