I did like someone, once. I mean, it wasn't successful, but I liked him. And I guess me liked me? I don't know.

It was a few days after I turned 17 that we met. He had been on the run, just like me. His mom died in a fire, and his Aunt told the whole family it was his fault. So she put him in a foster home, refusing to take care of him.

The boy, well, he was one of a kind. He told crappy jokes, and insulted everyone in the nicest way. He helped me a lot.

His name?

Leo. That's all he told me.

We were together for two weeks, just before he was found and brought to another foster home. We did everything we could to survive with each other.

And he was the only other person who could see the monsters.

Leo didn't care that I was a stupid girl who ran away from home because I was too scared to go to a boarding school. He didn't care that I only ate one, sometimes two, meals a day from a dumpster. He didn't care that I slept on park benches.

He thought I was beautiful anyways.

And I thought he was my savior.

I believed I loved him.

I just really liked him.

What foolish dream had ever made me think we'd grow old together?

I stopped seeing people after he left. Because I thought the only boy who could make me happy left.

Because the only boy who I ever liked had gone.