"I think we should stick to being friends," he said, his brow furrowed with fake concern, and with what little control I could get about me I smiled weakly at him, showing the fatigue in my eyes. "I'm sorry," he followed, "I hope this is okay?"

"I understand completely, and it's fine," I said, although I didn't understand, and I certainly didn't feel fine. All I wanted was for him to leave my apartment, but I still had to see him twice weekly, so I had to save face for just a little longer. Questions of why doesn't he like me? and what did I do? were starting to trickle in. I forced them out and avoided looking at the face that was far too cute for someone like me anyways. Damn he was good looking, all blunt features, tan skin, and brown eyes that never betrayed a thing. I liked him a lot.

It wasn't like we'd been going out for months, either. Just a few weeks, just a few fun dates, just a few brief kisses sneaked in here and there, never for longer than a few seconds. I gave in and looked over at him, and he still studied my face, I guess to make sure that I was taking it all right, that I wouldn't cry or freak out. Well, I wouldn't in front of him, I knew.

"So you're okay?" He asked. He was still looking straight at me. I wished he'd stop.

"Yes, I'm fine," I lied, and then told another: "I was sort of starting to think that'd be for the best, too, with the whole fraternity thing." We were fraternity brothers--that was how we'd met, in fact, just a few years ago. "It could get weird very fast."

"Yeah. I'm glad you understand. But we'll still be friends, right?"

"Of course," I said, and forced another smile. "But hey, I had a test in Molecular Biology this morning, so I didn't sleep much last night. I think I need a nap."

If he knew how much of a stupid excuse that was, he at least had the decency not to show it. Instead, he just said, "Yeah, sure," and stood up from my ugly, lumpy couch. "Well, I'll see you at chapter Sunday, then," he said as he headed for the door.

"Yes, for sure," I said, and I followed him to walk him out. He hugged me when we got to the door--God, I wish he hadn't--but then with a few weird goodbyes he left, and I stood behind the closed door and rubbed my eyes for a second. Well, he was gone, in more ways than one. I retreated to my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed.

Somehow, I couldn't come to cry; as I said, we hadn't been dating for long, and it wasn't a disaster. There I lay, all nineteen years of me across a gray bedspread, and for the first time in a while I felt something--red against all the gray I'd been in, and suddenly there was life bursting forth from my fingertips, and from my toes, and from the top of my head and my chest, and I could feel the blood in my veins again.

I still see him pretty often. He's seeing someone new now, and I've been on dates, and really I hardly think of him at all, except to silently thank him for making me really feel again.