Without a single word of pardon of explanation, I rose from my chair and walked steadily to the ladies’ room. Thankfully, the area was empty when I walked through. I staggered over to the sinks and propped my elbows on the ledge. I dry heaved, positioning my head over the sink.

What was happening to me?

I raised my head and looked at my reflection in the splattered, dirty mirror. My eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and my face appeared wrinkled and drawn out. Feeling another wave of nausea, I ducked my head and dry heaved again. My stomach and chest felt so pressured and bloated that I wanted to rip my midsection open just to relieve the nausea.

What had happened?

All I did was tell a boy that I was traumatized by past experiences, and therefore wanted nothing to do with serious relationships. I knew that he liked me; he confessed two nights before. And here I was, denying any hope that he would have me as a girlfriend. But how could he understand the hurt that I went through? I lost my dignity and innocence time and again to boys who claimed that they loved me, and then left me because they merely lost interest or got what they wanted. I was nothing but a discarded toy, clinging to nothing but my virginity… it was the only thing that none of them had stolen from me, and I was not about to chance another relationship, fearing that it woo would be wrenched from my grasp. I’d be left with nothing, the shell of a teenage girl, devoid of my dignity, my heart in shambles.

I entertained the notion that this boy could be different… but how could I give him a heart that’s been too abused to be functional? My heart was a glass bowl, crystal clear, ready to be filled. Time and again, it was shattered like a piggy bank, and its contents were taken back. Each time it was painstakingly glued back together… but what kind of gift is a broken bowl, shattered and shoddily repaired so many times that it lo longer retained its crystal beauty? Glass, once it is shattered, can no longer be flawlessly pieced back together. There remains the semblance of cracks. Light no longer shines through. Its pure beauty is forever lost.

A tear dropped into the porcelain sink. I lifted a hand to my face and wiped my eyes.

What of his heart? Was I being the very person I wanted to avoid? Was I, in my own paranoia of guarding my heart, shattering his in the process?

Another tear in the sink.

I squeezed my eyes shut and sobbed.

“I’m sorry.”

I dry heaved again.