I wait for both my parents to leave before I can give Paris the all clear to cross the street and come over. My dad is already gone before I get up, which leaves my mom, who does yoga on Wednesday morning before her afternoon book club. It gives Paris and me hours of time alone together, something we haven't had in over a week. I've been working on college applications every afternoon, but Paris has been really understanding. He's such a sweet and beautiful boyfriend. I love him so much for knowing how much I care about him even when I'm stuck at home writing boring college applications. At least I hope he never forgets how much I care about him, even if we've barely had a moment alone together in days. 

Once I wave goodbye to my mom and watch her drive out of our little cul-de-sac, I wave across the street at Paris, who's been casually watching from his bedroom window in tandem with reading some book for school. I watch as Paris makes his descent downstairs and run back into my home to make sure everything is ready. I race upstairs to my bedroom, analyzing every candle to see if any of them have burnt out. I fan out all the rose petals on my bed so that they'll look perfect when Paris walks inside. I make sure the speakers are at the right noise level to create the perfect ambiance. Everything needs to be perfect for my Paris.

The doorbell rings and I'm left with my heart racing like a jet turbine on an airplane ready to take off. I look at myself one last time in the mirror to make sure my blond curls are all combed out and that there are no imperfections on my simple jeans and tee combo. The doorbell rings again and I race down the stairs and open the door. Paris is staring at me with a look of desire on his face that I haven't seen in far too long. Without a word, Paris walks right in and lets the door shut behind him. He reaches for my lips within an instant, but I run off, letting Paris chase after me as we race up the staircase. The moment I open my door, Paris is taken aback by the beautiful array of flowers and candles littered across my bedroom. I wish I had my camera so I could take a picture of his amazed face. 

"Well, are you going to look at that bed all day or are you going to push me down onto it?" I ask, breaking the silence before biting at my lip temptingly.

Paris smirks at me and does exactly as I tell him to, pulling off my t-shirt and licking at my lips, kissing them deeply, pressing his own into mine. I wrap my arms around his back and press his body onto mine, sinking my fingers into the fabric of his long sleeve. I pick the loose cotton off from his skin and pull it over his head, before tickling at his exposed skin. His body shivers as my fingers play him like a piano. His groans are music to my ears, and his skin blushes from the contact between us.

Paris laughs intoxicatingly and I roll him over so that I'm on top of him. Then I'm pulling off his jeans and smiling down at him, glad to see his happy face again - a face I haven't seen in so long. Yet while there's a look of pure joy on his face, his electrifying smile looks empty. I wonder if I'm just imagining it. He's seemed so down lately - not like himself. I assumed school was getting at him, but now I'm not so sure. Even now, when the two of us have hours of time together, it looks like he's putting on a show. There's a blankness to his chocolate eyes - they've gone so dark - it's as if there's no light left in them. 

"Do you want me to stop?" I ask softly, whispering delicately into his ear. My heart is pounding and I'm resting my naked chest against his. Paris is coiling his fingers into the loops of my jeans, reaching for my zipper as I murmur my concern to him. 

"No, I'm fine," Paris mutters back.

"Just fine?" 

"I'm great, Grayson - honest."

Paris stumbles as he talks, but that's not what scares me. My heart jumps at the sound of Grayson. Only my parents call me Grayson. Paris knows that. Something's wrong - I know it is.

"Did you just call me Grayson?" I ask, straddling him in between my legs.

"I...I don't know what you're talking about," Paris assures me, unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them off of me. I sigh and grab hold of his wrist, stopping them from reaching the elastic waistband of my boxers. This isn't right - this isn't how things should be. 

As if admitting defeat, Paris lets go of my jeans, letting his hands fall to his waist. I pull my body off of him. There's a pulsating hunger in my abdomen that won't stop, but I push it deep down and roll back onto the comforter. My head is pounding and sweat is dripping down my skin, getting caught in the ringlets of hair on my chest. Paris is looking up at the ceiling, biting his red lips so hard they may bleed. 

We sit there in silence for a while. It's hard for me to think of anything to say. There was only one other time he acted this way. It was the day I started screwing around with Naomi. I was so angry at him for shutting me out. I wanted to hurt him. More than anything, I wanted to convince myself that fucking the girl next door would make all my problems go away. A part of me wished the feelings I had for Paris would quickly be overshadowed by Naomi's beautiful body. It was wrong of me to do that. I took advantage of Naomi, and I did it to get revenge on someone who needed my help. He needs my help right now. I need to be there for him, no matter what.

I roll over so that I'm facing Paris. He looks lifeless in this light. My windows are covered, so it would be pitch black in here if it weren't for all the candles I lit. The artistic side of me wants to snap a photograph of him. I want to capture him like this - he's so broken. It hurts me to see him like this. I want others to feel that hurt, to understand what it's like to hit rock bottom and feel like there's nowhere else to go.

I don't say a word. All I do is reach out my hand for him to take, and he takes it. For hours we sit there, staring at the ceiling together, the silence occasionally disrupted by a candle burning out or a car racing down the street. There are times when he starts to cry, and I hold him while he sobs. I'm gentle, careful not to hold him too tightly that his heart will race with panic. 

I wish there was a way I could make it all better, wipe the slate clean. If I could, I'd give Paris all the happiness in the world, just so he doesn't have to feel sad ever again. I know that's impossible, though. We all have to go through sorrow, or we fail to understand the joy in life. Some of us go through more sorrow than joy, however. It's not fair, but it's the way the world works. All we have to do is trust that the good times will come. Life can change in an instant. The saddest point in your life may be a door into the brightest point of your future.

I can only hope Paris knows this. Whatever happens, I'll be there for him. Whether it's the saddest point of his life or the brightest point of his future, I'll be there for him.