down bad (rojie’s version part one)

LINK: down bad (rojie’s version part one)

For context, for those who don’t know:

down bad is an adjective. slang: in a bad state or condition; feeling or marked by strong and usually unrequited feelings of attraction, desire, or infatuation.

Straight away, you already know what song comes to mind.

Currently listening to: U Got It Bad – Usher

The only person I ever had it this bad for was my very first boyfriend, Chris. He was half Polynesian, half German—an exotic mix that gave him this sun-kissed, athletic look that made him look untouchable. Tall, tan, broad-shouldered, six feet of lean muscle with a body of a Greek god. And his eyes… the way he looked at me, it was enough to make me forget my own name.

I’m in the 10th grade, I swore he was the LOML (love of my life).

Chris was the most popular guy on campus. Every girl wanted him, and it wasn’t hard to see why. He had this bad-boy edge too—a transplant from Houston, sent north after getting into trouble in Texas. His mom shipped him off to live with his dad and stepmom, which only added to the mystery. And unlike most of the guys at school who drooled over California blondes, Chris’s gaze kept drifting toward Asian girls. Girls who looked like me, with almond-shaped eyes, dark hair, flat nose, and flat chest.

The first time I noticed him looking at me, I panicked. He was walking straight toward me, and I dropped my compact mirror like an idiot. He picked it up, handed it back, and smiled. That was it. That small, stupid moment became the start of everything. From then on, we were inseparable. For the first time in my life, I felt euphoric. It was a high so powerful it was memorable. Unfortunately, the curse was that nothing—no relationship, no thrill, no high since… has ever compared.

I chased that feeling for years. Still do.

Back then, I was a people-pleaser to the bone. Whatever he said, I memorized. Replayed. Obsessed over. Once, he offhandedly mentioned that I was gaining weight. I went on a strict diet immediately that consisted of a can of Diet Coke, half an apple, and a quarter of a bagel for breakfast. No lunch. No dinner. I joined track because he was on the team, and even though running miles nearly killed me, I was ecstatic just to run beside him. When I dropped to 95 pounds, he frowned and told me I was getting too bony. I didn’t care. I hid my body under layers of clothes from my parents and friends, but I thought about him more than I thought about myself. During lunch break, I didn’t eat for months. I sat in the library, watching him from afar like some deranged creeper. I eventually slowly began to eat again because starving myself and running was not sustainable.

Eight hours at school plus track wasn’t enough. I needed more.

He wrote me love letters and slipped them into my backpack. We kissed and held hands between classes. We lied to our parents so we could take the bus home together. He was oxygen, and I was addicted.

My parents hated him. Not Korean. His parents were divorced. Not acceptable. I could no longer tell them the truth anymore, I was weaving stories about my whereabouts just to steal time with him.

When prom came, they fought for weeks. My dad finally caved after meeting Chris’s father, who was ridiculously boujee and had perfect manners. My mom was still against it, but eventually they let me go without any financial support and I had to be home by 2230. I borrowed a dress from my cousin and picked flowers from my backyard for his boutonnière.

None of it mattered. All that mattered was Chris.

I was beside myself. Consumed. I wanted to know everything about him, even the parts that I knew would hurt me. I begged him to tell me about his first sexual experience, even though I knew it would cut me open. He resisted, but I pushed until he broke and told me (I’ll have to write about this in another post). My reaction was toxic AF, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted the pain, like it proved how deep my love ran.

Nights, I’d sneak him into my house. He’d run five miles just to see me, and I’d disable the alarm, tiptoe to the first floor laundry room, and let him in from the side door. We’d sneak upstairs like we were on a covert mission. In my room, with music muffling the silence, we’d make love until I collapsed into his arms, and we fell asleep for a couple of hour, with him holding me tight, before he left to go home.

He was three years my senior. His home life was a mess. On the last day of 10th grade, he told me that his dad was kicking him out and he’d be forced to move back to Texas. The thought shattered me. I became a sobbing wreck. I cried every. fucking. day. My world was collapsing. I spiraled into a deep depression, wondering if life even had a point without him in it.

And for several years, I was lost, with no lighthouse to guide me or rescue me. I was floundering all alone.