I gulped and gritted my teeth as I poured the rest of my can of Molson into my mouth. Liquid courage tastes bitter, but at least it’s courage. Plus, if my mouth is full, I’m not obligated to speak or respond—both of which become exceedingly difficult in the face of anything dealing with the opposite sex. That’s how it works for me anyway.

I finally cringe and swallow as Elton John croons from my speakers—“my gift is my song…and this one’s for you.”

This one’s for you.

I place the empty can on the counter and saunter over to where he’s standing, picking at my hangnails and darting my eyes in every direction but his. He looks so intimidating standing there with his left hand shoved nonchalantly in the pocket of his hoodie and his right clutching his own bitter can of courage. His left shoulder blade rests against the wall; he leans like his body’s tired but his mind’s wide awake. I approach, but I freeze. My vocal chords have snapped. My tongue is missing. I cannot form words.

I am so in love with this boy and I don’t think he knows how much. If he did he wouldn’t have told me to back off. He wouldn’t have dismissed the word “love” from our vernacular. My heart wouldn’t have broken. We’re young. I know we’re young and we have our whole lives ahead of us…and all the rest of that bullshit parents tell you when you bring your first boyfriend home. I am aware that there is no forever when you’re young, but there’s at least a while. And a while is all I wish for.

Relationships are power struggles, and whoever loves the other person less has the upper hand. I never had the upper hand. I got too attached. My hands are low, if not cut off completely. I’m speechless and handless, yet I’m still walking forward. For him. Towards him.

I can’t help it. There’s a magnetic pull. Love is a magnet. When I’m with him, I lose all doubt in us, in him, and in myself. I shine, I sparkle, I’m me.

But I can’t do it.

I retreat back into my room to down another beer. What am I doing? I glance in the mirror, push my hair back behind my ear, exposing my face to the world. I bite off a hangnail as I sit on the edge of my bed. My legs are shaking, my hands are shaking, my whole body is shaking—I close my eyes and remember when I first saw him smile at me, and my body relaxes immediately. I run my index fingers under my eyes collecting the melted eyeliner, and I wipe the residue on the inside hem of my tank top. I inhale, thrust my shoulders back, exhale, take a step forward, inhale, reach for the doorknob, exhale, and open the door.

I take one last deep breath, bite my bottom lip, pull my zip-up’s sleeves down over my fingers, hands clenched into nervous fists, and walk. I walk rhythmically, in tandem with my breathing.

He looks in my direction; I can’t go back now. His eyes open wide in a way that says, “What happened to us?” Mine reply in dim confusion.

As I approach him, I try to give off an apologetic look and air. A look that says, “I’m sorry, I want to be the best for you that I can be.” I do. I want to be right, and kind. I want to be understanding and caring. I want to love and be loved, but I don’t want a power struggle, I want equality. I want him to want me like he used to. I don’t want to be speechless and handless. I want to be whole again.

I’m so close to him that I can feel him, yet we’re not touching. The heat of his body reaches mine, and it makes me shiver in anticipation. But it’s pointless…I can’t touch—he still has my hands. I can’t speak—he still has my tongue.

He turns toward me, my head is down. He stares at the top of my head, and brushes a hand through my hair and curving it around my face, lifting my head so I’m looking at him.

He grabs my wrists—my hands come back. He lifts my chin—my tongue comes back. I nuzzle my head into his warm fleece hoodie and say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry he forgot how to love me. I wish he could learn again.

He is silent for a moment while he hugs me closer. Finally, he says, “That’ll do. That’ll do for a while.”

There isn’t forever when you’re young, but there is always a while.