I hate that one day, when my daughter is 16 and experiencing her first heartbreak, tightly wrapped in blankets and sorrow with mascara running down her porcelain cheeks, I won’t know what to do. I won’t be able to say “it’ll get better,” “you can move on,” or “you deserve better,” because I won’t know how. I spent my teenage years tearing my veins open to try to rid myself of a boy who never truly loved me. I spent my teenage years not sleeping because all I saw in my sleep was him leaving over and over again. I spent my teenage years with tear-stained pillows and blood-stained wrists because I wasn’t strong enough to let go. So one day, when my daughters heart is crumbling in her chest, I’ll burn his pictures for her. I’ll delete his text messages. And maybe we can help each other get over our first heart breaks. Maybe she won’t have to spend the rest of her teenage years like I did.

I’d be his, if he asked.

He saw her before he saw anything else in the room.