Livia's words hit me deeply:

"Don't think for one second he will ever love you after me because, in his eyes, you're just a pathetically annoying girl he got stuck with. He knows, sweetie, and he never cared."

Is it true? Has Damìan always known about my feelings but never said anything? The question hurts even to comprehend. I take a swig from the vodka bottle, the liquor burning my throat as tears swell in my eyes. I was already tipsy and wanted to sit down in a quiet place and maybe cry, so venturing upstairs; I looked for such a place.

The need to say my feelings aloud to Damìan grows stronger, but the thought that he may already know angers me.

It shouldn't, but it does.

If he's known, why hasn't he said anything? Why keep me wondering and guessing all these years? The torture of seeing him in a relationship with someone that never appreciated or deserved him angers me greater.

"He knows, sweetie, and he never cared."

Eventually, stopping at the end of the hallway, I lean against the wall and drink more vodka as I observe the scarcely filled hallway. People are making out, others are drinking in solitude, and for some reason, the scene brings tears to my eyes.

I feel overindulgent in this love. How does one stop feeling?

I want to press on and erase my feelings for Damìan, but love isn't an on-and-off switch. You can't turn it off as vampires did in the vampire diaries. It's all a part of humanity...raw, infuriating humanity.

In my favourite play, 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' the character Helena said: "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind." The quote holds a degree of truth, and though the sentiment is impressed more with the soul than a person's looks, I have to say that Cupid was an adequate analogy. Like Cupid, I feel as alone in this love, watching from afar as others fall for one another, whether authentic or superficial. But unlike Cupid, no arrow of mine allows love to last. In this case, my satchel is empty...Cupid was lucky in that regard; at least he could make it happen; despite the danger it presented.

I angrily wipe the tears away, wishing I didn't feel the way I do, but I'm a hopeless romantic, hopelessly in love. About to sit in the spot I'm standing, I notice across the hall from me that Damìan is watching. His face softens when I catch his gaze.

Pretending to be unfazed, I motion to the vodka bottle. "Need something strong?"

He leans against the door frame, observing me a moment before responding. "You read my mind."

Leaning off the wall, I saunter past him into the room. It's a media room; there's a large screen on the black-coloured walls, a bar cart at the door, three rows of recliner seats in the middle of the room, and the ceiling has blue led lights surrounding a mural of stars.

"Shrau's parents are in the entertainment business, right?"

"Yeah, her Dad is a producer."

"Nice." I chuckle, "it reminds me of the fort we made in Aunt Àna's garden. It wasn't as grand as this, but we had fun that day, watching horror films." I turn to him, "I think it was the first time I saw Carrie."

"Yeah. I was eleven then, and you were twelve. It was the summer that your parents divorced."

My face falls, "mmm...what a way to ruin a good memory."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to." He responds, raking his hand through his dark and thick curly bowl cut.

I sigh, "nevermind, we're both out of it." I say, sitting at the foot of the recliner.

He follows suit, taking a seat next to me. "It's been an eventful evening, hasn't it?"

"The exchange is most likely on socials as we speak." I glimpse his faraway look and add, "at least you don't have to worry about facing the stares at school. We graduated!" I cheer dramatically.

I hand him my vodka bottle, and he takes it instantly, swigging and not even wincing at the burn.

"I thought you didn't drink anymore?" He asked, handing it back to me with bruised knuckles.

I half-smile, "made an exception." I point to his knuckles, "you should take care of that. I can go find a first aid kit."

He looks at his hand, flexing it, "I hadn't noticed it," he says softly. "I'll be fine."

I think he's talking more to himself than to me. We both grow silent.

"I got in a fight with dad," he says eventually.

I glance at him, "what's his problem this time?"

"He's upset I went behind his back and applied to NYU."

"I thought you said he was fine with it?"

He shrugs with a tight-lipped frown, "I lied. He wanted me to apply to Cornell and the others."

Damìan and his father were once close. I remember when he would take Damìan, Carmen and me sailing at Lake Tahoe every summer. He'd teach us to fish, and we'd take turns steering. I had some of my best memories on his yacht, El Guánica (named after his wife's hometown in PR).

However, when Damìan turned ten, something changed—he never told me why and I never forced the matter because I assumed he'd come around, but seven years have passed, and he hasn't said anything.

As for those sailing trips, we haven't been on one since.

"Did you get into Cornell? You never told me about the other places you applied."

"Because NYU has always been my first choice." He motions between us, "our first choice."

I roll my legs under me and observe the star mural. I recognise it to be the Orion belt.

"Do you even want to pursue a Hotel Management degree?" I ask.

"No...I don't know. Regardless, I should be able to choose where I'll go for the next four years, shouldn't I?"

"I'm sure he cares and will eventually understand your—"

"You know better than to believe that. He said I was a disappointment, but at this point, me importa una mierda lo que él piense (I don't give a shit what he thinks)."

"I guess Livia didn't make this night any better, huh?" He shakes his head.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He sighs, "you know what..." he looks up at the ceiling, "I am beginning to realise that love is chemical. I never agreed with science when they said it's the dopamine and serotonin talking, but after tonight I have to hand it to them. They're on to something."

He motions for me to hand him the semi-finished vodka bottle.

"I'm heartbroken and feel a weight in my chest," he snickers. "That weight isn't there; it's a phantom pain. I've convinced myself that I'm in love...was in love...but it isn't real...it's just my brain making me think I am."

He swigs from the bottle again, "I'm alright with that because it means the pain I'm experiencing isn't real." He laughs.

Denial; only denial would make him say that.

"So, scientism is what you believe in now?"

Damìan shrugs.

"No. Your hurt is real. Your love is real," he glances at me, "was real. It's okay to feel, and it's okay to be hurt, and it's okay to feel miserable. I'm sorry you are but don't diminish what you're feeling by calling it a chemical reaction. Fuck science. Yes, love can be fickle and nonsensical and sometimes, not to be trusted, but...."

I take his bruised hand and trace it gently, "it's as real as this. The bruise is there, the pain is there, the feeling is there...and just like your bruises," I address him thoughtfully, "eventually, it will heal."

He cups his hand over mine, "I don't feel anything, Lulu," he withdraws his hand and drinks from the semi-finished glass bottle. "My hand is numb, which is why I didn't notice it and just like my hand...I'm numb as well."

It's hard watching him in pain. He's heartbroken and doesn't want to acknowledge it. Isn't that the most dangerous thing a heart can do—pretend?

He does have a point, though: love can be nonsensical and nonpractical because it sometimes ends in heartbreak; I mean, all the plays I've read prove that point. Although it's fiction, that expressionism isn't pulled out of thin air.

I wouldn't say I like the sad and blue Damìan, and it hurts to watch. It hurts me so much that my chest aches, but I refuse to leave him alone. He's my best friend, my first love, my only love, and if I can lessen the burden of pain he's feeling, I'll do my best.

I pat his leg as I get up from my seat on the floor. "Let's, find some more to drink."

He looks at me curiously, "¿qué (what)?"

"No vas a beber solo esta noche (you will not be drinking alone tonight)."

He smiles, "truly?"

"Always."

Truly & Always is a promise. It reminds us that we'll be there for each other, no matter what, and tonight, I intend to be here as long as he needs me.