I feel a ray of sunlight hit my face, and I blink my eyes a few times. I wipe the sleep away as memories of last night, of that kiss, come back. That kiss almost undid me. How is it that she can ruin me so easily?

I look to my side to find Daphni nestled in the crook of my arm, fast asleep. My other girl has fallen asleep on the edge of the bed, her chest rising and falling, the bed vibrating slightly with each of her snores.

My eyes come back to Daphni. She looks so peaceful, so beautiful asleep in my arms. She fits perfectly here and it feels so right. She feels like home.

She also terrifies me. She has no idea of the power she holds over me. She brings back memories I had pushed away. In my arms, she taunts me with the temptation of a future I’m not sure she even wants.

I need to get out and clear my head. I carefully pull my arm away. She stirs a bit, but doesn’t wake. I throw on a pair of shorts and jog downstairs. Shakira decides to sleep in, so I throw on my tennis shoes and head out for a run.

I try in vain to outrun my thoughts of Daphni, try to escape the memory of all those months I spent torturing myself after she’d left me. There had been seemingly endless nights when I would lay awake in the barracks, on that hard mattress, replaying every single conversation, trying to pinpoint the exact moment she had decided she no longer loved me. I never was able to figure that out, to understand why she had so callously tossed me aside. Eventually, I had learned to move on and with time, Daphni began to fade away. I made new memories to replace the old ones. But no woman could ever wholly replace her. And that was the cruelest part of it all: Daphni Monroe had ruined me for all other women.

I had only been twenty when I first met Daphni. My dad had been hired to watch over her, and he had shared the stories of her crazy mother, who would make her perform concerts back to back, drag her to clubs, where she would get plastered while her daughter had to take care of her. He loved Daphni, saw her like a daughter, and he would sneak her back to the house whenever he could. It was during one of those times that I met Daphni. She had been such a contradiction: forced to grow up so quickly, and yet still so young and naive.

My mom had made lasagna that night, and then announced we would be watching Titanic for the fiftieth time. We had settled into the living room: Dad in his recliner, Mom and Daphni on one couch, and me on the other couch. Dad fell asleep twenty minutes in, and mom huddled with her bowl of popcorn, had been fixated on the screen as she recited whole scenes she had memorized. That night, we had developed a secret language of quiet snickers and long, stolen glances when my mom would sob, or my father would let out a loud snore.

When the movie ended, I quickly offered to drive Daphni back home. We talked the whole ride back, and I almost let her leave without getting her number. When she walked up to the door, with her key in the lock, I had run out and asked for it. She smiled, gave me her number, and from there, we were lost in each other. We texted every day, stupid jokes that turned into “I need to see you” and “I miss you” then eventually “I love you.”

I had been her first. The memory of our first night together making love is one that has been, for better or worse, burned into my memory. It had been here at the beach house. It was the week after her eighteenth birthday. Daphni's mom had made her spend her birthday in Canada, doing different club appearances every night. Only after a week was she able to sneak away. I had taken her here, after having made the three-hour drive down the day before so I could have the whole place decorated with balloons and streamers.

I'll never forget watching her first walk into the house, her emerald eyes wide as she saw all the balloons I had spent hours blowing up. She had turned to me and kissed me, whispered that she loved me. We had already confessed our love months before, but each time those words spilled from her lips, it felt like the first time.

She had led me up the stairs, past the cake waiting in the kitchen. She had sat on the edge of the bed, her body humming with nervous energy. I had knelt down in front of her, leveling my face with hers.

"We don't have to—" I had started before she had pressed her finger to my lips, silencing me. With her eyes locked on mine, she had lifted her arms and peeled off her shirt. At the sight of her naked body, I had felt my heart stop. She was so beautiful. And she was giving me this gift, something that would seal us together.

We had made love for the first time in the same bed we had slept in last night. That night was the soundtrack for most of my sleepless nights. In the privacy of the night and solitude, I would replay it over and over. I would remember the feel of her soft skin, the way her back would arch into me as I teased at her hard nipple with my mouth, the slickness of her entrance, primed and ready for me. I would replay the quiet gasp she made as I first thrust inside her, marking her as mine forever. The feeling of her clenching down against me, her legs wrapped around my waist, have been seared into my memory forever.

When we had walked in the room and she saw the bed, I was sure that she had remembered. I could see the breath hitch in her throat as her hand skimmed the mattress, as if she could summon the memories from touch. But there was already too much between us, so I kept silent. Had I opened my mouth, I don't know if I would have been able to keep the words from spilling out.

I still love you.

I pull off to the side of the road, dropping my hands to my knees and sucking in air. I know I still love her.

I never stopped loving her.