While wandering around my apartment, clustered with useless junk, I remember our first fight, appropriately in first grade.

“You stole my last strawberry!” I had accused you, along with your innocent blueberry eyes.

“I… I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,” You replied bashfully, and I knew you were.

As I ambled to my dresser, my fingers lingered on your faded photograph, taken at the pubescent age of fifteen. Another memory was reawakened.

“Why do you always have to put me down? Just because I have a crush on you,” I had sobbed, reduced to tears after another of your cruel jokes.

“Well, its ‘cause… I like you… too. I’m sorry for hurting you,” You answered, and I knew you were.

At that point I collapsed onto what was our bed, and was filled with immediate disgust at my last memory.

I had creaked the door open, being late from work, to find you naked and busy with a blond.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” You said, but I knew you weren’t. And when I pulled the trigger, I wasn’t either.