dreams {neymar jr.}

heartache

I love beaches. The sand, the calm sound of water lapping against the surface. Children playing, and parents occasionally rushing to their rescue. There are so many families, and they're all adorable.

They all give me heartache.

A mother and father holding their child's hands while the baby waddles to the water comes into my view. The couple shares a smile, a genuinely happy look in their eyes. Neymar and I used to be like that.

Time to go.

I walk home to my house in a beach side suburb. I open the door, and hear the tv blaring. Emilio is here. Emilio and I got together about six months after I arrived in the US. But honestly, I don't know why I haven't broken it off yet. He's lazy and feeds off of my success. He claims he has a job, he leaves the house everyday at six and returns at seven. But, he never brings home a check. He's a horrible boyfriend, and even though I've told him over and over again that I don't want to have relations with him, he still gets too touchy for my liking. That's when we have a blowup argument, and he leaves the house for at least two days. Honestly, I think I keep him around to keep my mind off of Neymar.

To say that I'm not over him is an understatement. I hate the way it ended and I always feel regretful. He was probably right, I could've found a job in Europe. But no, I had to go to California and be a Victoria's Secret model. I mean sure, I've moved up since then, signed with a couple makeup companies, a coupe fashion labels, even the occasional television show, the occasional movie. But still, I find myself crying over him and wondering if it was worth it. I was only eighteen at the time, and extremely excited at the opportunity, I was smart enough to know it would lead to much more. So, I made my guardian, my Tía, sign the contract and I moved. She tried to convince me to patch it up with Neymar, because we both knew I would be happier with him, even if I wasn't living my own dream. And now that I'm here, where I always dreamed to be, I don't know how to feel about it.

Taking a deep breath, I close the door behind me and head into the kitchen. I open the refrigerator, and grab a container of Greek yogurt, to start preparing my dinner, a fruit salad. Standing up, I run right into Emilio's tan shoulder. His hands appear on my hips, bringing me closer to him, his face already in my hair. "Stop," I say quietly, "I just want to eat and go to bed." I tell him. "Really?" He scoffs, "It's barely three. What are you always so depressed about?!" He practically yells, finally letting me go. I walk over to the counter, keeping my eyes off of him and my head down. "You make more money than I even know, and you could probably have whatever you want! But no, you're always fucking depressed!" He shouts. I finally make eye contact with him, "Don't curse in my house." I hiss at him. "Oh, right, you're a Christian. Yeah, right. You're a fucking underwear model. What bullshit." He seethes back. "Get out!" I scream, pointing to the door, "Get out of my house!" He laughs, "Right, you're gonna pull this on me again. Fine, I'll just go find some other bitch to fuck. I'll be back in the morning, baby." He says tauntingly, moving closer to me to kiss my cheek. I push him away, and he holds his hands up as if innocent. Laughing, he walks out of my house, slamming the door behind him.

And that's the reality of our relationship.