The last time I slept with him, I knew it wasn't about love any longer. It was about holding on to the scraps of a boy who had already let go. I hated myself for it, but I couldn't stop......Not yet. I kept telling myself that if I stayed close enough, long enough, he might remember the way he used to hold me, the way he once made me feel. The truth was I was already alone, even in his bed.