Was He Worth It?

I watched my feet swing back and forth to the rhythm of a rickety old swing

 "You need to move on,"

I heard my friend say for the millionth time as she took a drag off of her cigarette.  

"I know but it's so hard," 

I said, wrinkling my nose as she blew the acrid smoke in my direction, the wind not quite catching it.

"He's not worth it,"

She deadpanned, coughing a little. She was too young to smoke, only seventeen. 

"All I have left is his memories," 

I started,

"And they burn."

She laughed, a raspy sound, and looked at me under hooded eyes. So she was only a year older than me, but her eyes held years that mine couldn't seem to fathom. She nodded slowly and motioned at me with the burning butt of her cancer stick,

"This burns, but it makes me feel alive. Doesn't the ache remind you that you can feel?"

She stood and walked away. My mind whirred as memories flooded through it. 

"You're beautiful,"

His voice had once whispered in my ear,

"I love you,"

Laced and heavy,

"It's not a good time,"

My heart breaking,

"I'm sorry."

It was never good enough.

I felt the lump begin to ache in my throat and planted my feet in the dirt to stop my world from tipping out of balance on that old swing. My worn shorts became tear soaked and his old sweatshirt wrapped around me like a traitor. Her words echoed,

"He's not worth it,"

He had been worth so much to me, but was he worth it?