Still Here

-2006-

Standing in front of my friend’s full-length mirror, I tugged my shirt lower, trying to hide the barely-there muffin top peeking over my low-rise jeans. I wasn’t fat, not even close, but standing beside my petite friends had a way of convincing me otherwise.

“Stop it, Hannah, you look fine,” Jess laughed from the doorway, tossing me a glittery lip gloss. “You’re going to stretch the shirt out.”

I rolled my eyes but stopped pulling at the hem. Hearing my name grounded me for a moment — Hannah. Fifteen years old, and suddenly living a life that felt wildly different from the one I’d had just weeks earlier.

Home had never been a place where I felt truly noticed. My parents had their routines, their arguments, and their expectations. I’d learned early that if I wanted attention — real attention — I had to chase it somewhere else.

My friends had recently introduced me to what they jokingly called my “slutty phase.” I’d lost my virginity less than a month earlier and had already been with two other boys since. For the first time in my life, I felt wanted. Desired. Seen.

As my innocence faded week by week, my confidence around boys grew. It didn’t take long to realize it didn’t take much to get their attention, even if, in my mind, I was only slightly above average-looking with a barely passable figure.

My hair was parted dramatically to one side so my fringe swept across my forehead, showing off the chunky bleached-blonde streaks breaking through my dark hair. We layered on heavy eyeliner, slid into our trusty slides, and headed out the door — for once, actually having somewhere to go.

We only knew one person at the party, but it didn’t take long before we were absorbed into a group of girls, chugging cruisers and giggling like the schoolgirls we still were.

That’s when I noticed him.

Benjie Hayden.

Shirtless, toned abs on full display, jeans and belt slung low on his hips and a funnel jammed into his mouth while his mates poured beer into the top.

After he finished, he chest-bumped his friends, laughing loudly. I watched from the corner of my eye, waiting for him to notice me and my friends.

He didn’t.

And that was exactly why I wanted him to.

There was something magnetic about him — not just his looks, but the way he carried himself. Confidence, charisma, charm… I could feel it radiating across the room. It wasn’t just attraction, it was the kind of energy that lingered, the sort you remembered long after the party ended.

Girls much prettier and more confident than me hung off his arm, laughing too loudly. But he barely seemed to notice them.

The more I watched him, the more desperate I grew for his attention — though deep down, part of me sensed that this was the beginning of something that might shape a lot more than just a summer fling.

After far too many drinks and more unreturned flirtation attempts than I’d like to admit, he finally glanced across the room and caught me staring. He smirked before weaving his way toward me.

With absolutely no game or subtlety, I threw myself into flirting the second he was close enough. To my relief, and growing intoxicated confidence, he responded, giving me the attention I craved.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” he said, casually leaning on the verandah post next to the chair I was sitting on.

His voice was smooth, and his green eyes glistened when he spoke to me.

“We came with Fi,” I explained. “We’ve only really started hanging out with her recently.”

I continued to look up at him, batting my lashes relentlessly.

He nodded. “Ahh, Fi — Trav’s little sis,” he pointed toward his friends. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you if you’re friends with Fi. I’m at Trav’s all the time.”

“Cool,” I said, attempting to sound unphased.

He studied my face for a while before one of his friends called him away.

Later, gloriously drunk, a group of us from the party sat in a loose circle on the grass at a nearby park, playing some sort of drinking game I never bothered to learn the rules of.

I was too busy teasing Benjie.

I lay back on the grass, stealing glances at him. His light tan dusted with faint freckles, sandy hair falling messily across his forehead, piercing green eyes, and that perfectly shaped nose. I couldn’t pinpoint what made him so attractive. He just oozed confidence and sex appeal.

And he smelled incredible.

Benjie lay down beside me.

And then… he kissed me.

Somehow no one else noticed.

Even surrounded by friends, it felt like we existed in our own private world. The moment felt soft and intimate, like it belonged only to us.

We shared many more drunken kisses that night, swapping gum, phone numbers, and slurred promises neither of us fully meant.

Things didn’t end there. Weeks turned into months, then years of messages, late-night meetups, and moments that felt like something real, even when deep down I knew they weren’t.

There was never romance. No wooing. Just teenage urgency, opportunistic quickies, and a desperate hunger for attention. He was the first boy to show me pleasure during sex, and what we had felt mutual, transactional passion.

He made it clear from the beginning that he didn’t want a girlfriend. Somehow, that only pulled me in deeper. Every time he gave me attention, it felt like I was winning. I became addicted to the chase, to the thrill of almost being chosen.

Too many nights I was drawn back in by his charming words.

A simple message was all it took:

I miss you, Bub.

And there I was, back in his bed. Those moments felt deeper than they should have. He was kind, sweet, attentive. But then… he would ghost me.

Weeks would pass until the next message appeared.

I continued playing it cool, letting him wander in and out of my life. “Friends with benefits,” we called it — a label that never quite matched the depth of what I felt. And yet, even knowing it was imperfect, it was better than not having him at all.

I secretly pined over Benjie for years, wishing and hoping that one day he might finally admit his feelings for me. But it never happened.

I wondered, is this what love is? Is this what I deserve?

I was eighteen the last time I saw Benjie.

I hadn’t seen him in months. Life had moved on in ways I hadn’t anticipated, and I had tried to find stability somewhere else.

That somewhere else was Ethan.

He was very different from Benjie — quieter, more controlled, and for the first time in years, he seemed to want me in a way that felt safe. He was attentive, polite, and occasionally charming. But underneath it all, he lacked something vital: the fire, the unpredictability, the raw connection that had always drawn me to Benjie.

With Ethan, I would be settling. Choosing comfort over desire. What I thought I deserved rather than what I truly wanted.

And while we weren’t officially in a relationship yet, Ethan had made it clear that was what he wanted.

Benjie had called me drunk that night. I was sober but agreed, begrudgingly, to pick him up from a party. I hadn’t heard from him in weeks, and I wasn’t sure why I said yes.

During the drive, his usual charm fell flat — sloppy, hollow, a little sad. Every time he tried to show softness, it was lost in a crude joke, a grab, or a suggestive comment. By the time we reached his house, I was done. I didn’t get out of the car. I said no to him for the first time ever.

Then I said goodbye. I drove away.

And that was the last time I would hear from him again — or so I thought.