It was all about the sex.

That's what she told herself, anyway. It was all just for the sex, the opportunity to escape reality for a little while, a warm body to hold onto when the world seemed too cold to bear.

You can lie to whoever you want, about whatever you want, but never attempt to deceive yourself.

The nights they spent together were so wrong. The way they met in the dark and the way their muffled groans that filled the empty halls echoed the true deceit that they were showing the world. But they didn't care, this, for the moment, was their world.

Fucking, sex, or better yet, making love, it was all a lie. It was all an escape. There was no love in their carnal act, only need and want, give and take. It was a jaded act by two jaded teenagers, forced to grow up before their time.

It was only sex.

They never said more than a few words during their time together, less when they were around their friends. There were no need for words; the feel of each other was all it took. She set him over the edge and he brought her back in, there was no time for polite conversation.

All the hurt in the world was gone, for the moments that turned into minutes they escaped something far bigger than themselves. They did it out of defiance, out of loneliness, maybe even out of hate, but it was theirs, and no one and nothing could take it away.

Neither were afraid of death. It faced them everyday and will continue to until they couldn't outrun it any longer. Some days they stopped running and waiting for death to catch up, but they couldn't trick it. Death only took the unwilling, but there were ways to get around that too.

Afterwards he always lit up a cigarette. She always stared, transfixed as she watched it burn.

He always said he hated the way they smelled. Hated the way they looked. Hated the burn he would get in the back of his throat with a dry mouth. But he loved what they did.

A slow suicide.