My Youth Began With Him Novels & Stories

He forwards his hand for me to grab and I silently slip my palm onto his rough large hand. "Its a very long story that starts when I turned eighteen.........."

, he looked up finally, meeting my eyes. "You said you used dream of me. I wanted to know more. When did I come to your dream the first time?", I beamed? "What did I use to do in your dreams? Did we have any moment? Did we use to talk talk... Did we.....", I held my breath, controlling my excitement. "Goddess, I wanna know so many things but I never got a chance to ask you" I was actually curious to know how it all started for him. Finally, he had a genuine smile on his face. He continued with the soup. "It was after my 16th birthday. Maybe, two or three days later", he said, looking into my eyes.

He paused, his jaw clenching as he fought to keep his emotions in check. “When I was old enough, I started working. First it was little things—mowing lawns, shoveling snow, whatever I could do to bring in a few bucks. Then, when I turned twelve, I got a job at a grocery store. It wasn’t much, but it helped. Every penny I made went to her.” I watched him closely, my heart aching for the boy he used to be. “That must have been so hard.”

My tone was very soft. “Any specific reason for the question?” He kept his eyes on the road. “Um,” I can’t really tell him it’s because I’m attracted to him, “Just curious.” I came up with an excuse, “I was wondering how someone who looks young could have a club of their own.” He chuckled, “I see,” There was a shine in his eyes, “It’s not mine,” He paused, “I mean the club is mine but I didn’t start it. My father did, and I just made it bigger and better.”

Years Ago We were sixteen. A boarding school hidden in the lush hills of the city. He was the kind of boy mothers warned their daughters about—sharp-tongued, fearless, too confident for his own good. But I loved him. In the way only teenage hearts can love: recklessly, foolishly, fully. It started with poetry in the margins of textbooks. Then letters under pillows. Then sneaking out of dorm rooms to meet at the abandoned chapel behind the science block. He was my first everything.

"We stayed together for the rest of his life and even though he was older, he took care of me, taught me everything. On his dying bed, he gave me this kingdom to rule. He loved me so much, and he was like a father to me. He was the only family I had left. He raised me. And then he passed away when I was 15." "He was one of the strongest men I've ever met, always protecting me and looking out for me. He never lied to me about anything and treated me like his own son." Vivian listened closely, watching him in the process to see if he was okay talking about it. But he didn't seem too sad and angry so she decided not to interrupt him when he was done. "One day when I was 15 years old, I left my

Ready to unburden everything and let it all die with him. “I never spoke to him till I was thirteen and I started junior high but I guess he had known me before then. That was the first time we met, he came to my cheer tryouts and supported me. He told me he liked me and wanted to be friends with me. I had always thought of myself mature so I didn't kick against it or find it abnormal. I just accepted it.”

Sat back on his heels, hands open like surrender. "It started in high school," he began, voice low, thick with emotion. "Senior year. Ridgewood Academy. You were... God, you were everything. Bright. Kind. Laughing in the hallways with your friends, head thrown back like the world was yours. I was the quiet kid scholarship student, nose in books, building what would become my career early."

He wouldn’t go against me, I knew he wouldn’t, he was the only thing in my life that kept me breathing. I had almost given up due to the tormenting years I experienced as a teenager when I found him on my 18th birthday. I had snuck out, nobody wanted to celebrate it, but that didn’t mean I was going to let it pass without at least tasting one drink in the pack bar. His scent, it’s the first thing I smelt when I walked into the bar, his gaze intensely watching me as I entered. His smile was so alluring, so authentically raw that I was already melting into his gaze

“Can’t I?” “O-of course.” “Good.” With a grin, he clapped his hands together and slowed us down to stop. “So here we are.” I looked around, taking in a stairwell in the corner where one wall was brick and the other was made mostly of dingy, twelve-inch windows. Pointing at the black and red letters B and C with a bit of white glowing around them, he explained, “This was my first tag. When I was fourteen. I’d just met some thug kids I’d bought some pot from, and one guy let me have a go with his paint can. This is what I made before the cops showed up and escorted me home.”