After I told him (his name turned out to be Alex) everything, he took us out to his car.
"So," Alex said. "Peter's a real dick."
I chuckled and smiled weakly.
A silence fell upon us, the only sound was the quiet hum of the engine.
"I'm not trying to pry, but do you still cut yourself?" Alex asked.
Peter had asked me the same thing all the time. I just nodded.
"Why do you do that to yourself? I don't think I'll ever understand but can you try to explain it to me?"
"Well, um, it started a few years ago when I was bad at dealing with my stress. For a long time it really helped. I can't explain it, but the pain reassured me. I thought I deserved it," I began. Tears were now streaming down my face, but I didn't wipe them away. "When I met Peter he tried to get me to stop. He was the only constant in my life and got me to stop cutting for almost 3 months. But when he started writing less and getting distant, I did it again. And now I do it because it doesn't matter. I don't matter."
Alex got out of the car and I started to cry even harder. I should have expected he would leave me, everyone else did.
I opened the door to get away when Alex's strong arms wrapped around me and hugged me tight. We stayed like that for a while, entwined in each other's arms.
"You do matter," he whispered.