Remember Last Knight

I like to tell myself things are better without Knight. That he was never good for me to begin with. That he’s no better than Louis ever was; he’s just another boy; another high, drunk, teenage boy who only wanted me to believe I loved him so that at some point I’d give in and sleep with him. He’s just a teenage boy and I’m just a teenage girl, falling for his smooth words and warm touch. He might have cared for me, somewhere, at some point, but he’d crossed the line. I could have fixed my life, my relationship with my parents and my brother, without him. I could have.

I’m lying to myself on a daily basis.

I haven’t talked to Knight in weeks, haven’t seen him in person in months. It wasn’t hard at first, being away from him. I was used to it, number one, and number two, I was too full of rage and anger to be upset. When the sadness hit, I was back at school where I could surround myself with busy work, old movies and Anne to distract me. I decided that the only good thing I could do for myself was to not reflect and to instead look forward, join groups and make friends and get involved. I needed change; I was tired of hating myself. I hated myself every moment that I felt myself slipping. I hated feeling so vulnerable again, the same way I had once with Louis.

Only now my anger wasn’t directed at petty girls. It wasn’t even directed at Knight. It was my anger, my frustration, and it was directed at two things. Running and boxing.

I’d taken them both up again at the university, in the student and faculty gym. I was a little weary about boxing at first, seeing as it had been something I hadn’t even practiced in years. Running was different. I did it all the time at home, around the neighborhood and at the track. I didn’t know what to expect when I first started back in the weight room.

But it came so easily. The jabs and high throws and swift punches. My arms were still familiar to the movements, my legs to the bending, my hips and knees to the ducking and twisting. It was more than I could have hoped for. It was the same, it was comfortable and familiar, and best of all it was nothing like before. It was relaxing and therapeutic and I enjoyed it more than I did was competing.

I was healing.

**
Anne took by my side once at the gym, watching me. After, when we went for a jog around the track above the basketball court, she told me that I looked good. My techniques, my hair, my skin, my boxing, my stride, everything. She said I looked good and that she was proud of me. It had been a few weeks since the last time I got really emotional over the Knight ordeal and her words hit me hard.

I sputtered out an equally short-of-breath response to her and we kept jogging. Neither of us said another word for some time and I had no clue what my roommate was thinking about. I, however, was stuck on what she said. How much it meant to me, how happy I was to hear it. She was proud of me. Someone was proud of me.

I hadn’t heard those words in such a heartfelt tone in a very, very long time.

I stopped right there on the track and Anne did too, a few paces ahead of me, turning back to check what was wrong. I threw my arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and held my roommate tight. She meant more to me than I ever thought a girl could, considering my history. She was like my sister now. She was my best friend.

I thanked her again, and she held on despite our sweaty states, and salty tears mixed in with the sweat along my cheeks.