But I knew I was in love. You know the type, the type you get when you’re thirteen and you’ve never felt it before. That uneasy feeling that you feel where you don’t really know if you like him and half the time you feel awkward and repulsed at the idea of loving him. It’s a confusing time. Yet you know from somewhere inside you that you love him.
He was two years older. Ah, two years older and athletic and I bet you that I could kick his ass. And I did. Yet he kept coming back.
I wish I could have done it differently. I wish I wasn’t so young and unsure and inexperienced. But what could I do? I had never felt this way before. We were best friends, young and awkward with the whole world ahead of us, opportunity and promise.
One day, he moved away. I don’t think I have ever felt so bad in my entire life. I’m trying not to cry just thinking about it. I was thirteen and head over heels. Then he said it. I’m moving. Far away. Our last hug was something that I will always remember. He squeezed me tight with his strong embrace and I held back my tears, burying my head in his neck. I inhaled his scent, and I don’t think that I have ever had my heart shattered yet felt so high at the same time. Then we let go.
I saw him next Christmas. It was purely coincidental. Or maybe not; I think that my coach was keeping it from me so that it would be a surprise. Even she thought that we should have dated back when I was young and a fool. I arrived at the rink with my coach, ready to teach lessons to the beginning students. Then I saw him.
His hair had grown out. He looked so different, but I know that he was the same boy from before from the smile and the way his eyes crinkled when he looked at me. He had become attractive and far less awkward. We embraced again. It was like coming home.
We sat close and I felt safe. He was home. We talked about his career and he showed me some videos. I clung onto every word. What stays in my memory the most is the way that he worked with the little children. It was sweet and caring, his features going soft and his voice becoming gentle, and I never want to forget it, painting a picture in my mind based on my memories every chance I get. And it is beautiful. He was beautiful.
He went away again. This time, it was for a long time. I haven’t seen him in over a year, and as much as I try to ignore the ache in my heart and the twisting feeling in my stomach, I just can’t. I can’t do it. I never truly want to forget the beautiful years I spent with him.
He left. And he made no effort to communicate with me, no effort to remember the poor girl that he used to know. He stopped texting me, stopped caring. I like to tell myself that he does it because he hurts as much as I hurt and would like to forget, but I know differently. He’s too busy to talk to me, too busy to miss me. He’s successful and beautiful and happy, and I’m here. In the small town, a nobody, injured and alone. I have not gone anywhere. I have experienced misfortune, and he has become successful at a young age. I try not to be bitter, but with this I struggle.
I can never cry for him. I try to let my feelings out, but the tears just don’t come. So my heart splits in two and I feel as if I’m going to burst while I sit and suffer in silence, alone. I can never move on from this. From him.
I was young. But I knew I was in love. And while he’s soaring high above the clouds, I can never join him. I can never give him what he desires, what he needs; I’m stuck on the ground. And I just want to hold him.
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