I met you at fourteen with the half-hearted dream of falling in love, living through the sugar-coated fallacy that every girl needs a boy to make her feel complete. We talked— I talked— you listened. I talked, you listened, and my half-hearted dream transformed into half-hearted nights spent crying on the carpet floor over the boy whose sole name would be on my mind for the next four years. I turn seventeen, so close to finally tasting your lips, yet still just as far. I turn seventeen, and I think I know it all, finally getting a grasp on the encompassing world around me with enough confidence to express my opinions on large issues, yet still not enough confidence to let you know that I feel “the forbidden L word,” the verb and adjective all in one— all for you. The time will come when we will meet, and we will laugh, and we will bond.We will become the best of friends, and you will learn that I stay up until 4am writing just as I will learn that you never stay up past 1am. One night, we will laugh so hard that tears of joy will spring from my eyes and God you will look into them like you have never seen a star shine quite as bright, and you will dare to wipe that single tear from the corner of my lid full well knowing what would ensue. The laughter will stop, and out of nowhere, you and I will kiss and I won’t know what to do because suddenly the sugar coated fallacy which blossomed in my fourteen-year old mind has been planted once more. One kiss will turn into several, we will stay up until 2am talking on the phone “just because,” and we will walk by coffee shops together, holding hands in the idealistic sense that nearly every girl wishes to hold hands. On our 2 year anniversary, you will tell me you love me but forget what that word meant to you— but you will not think twice about it because you will be too busy looking into my eyes and wondering how you ended up with someone like me in the first place. Six months will pass, and you will realize that looks fade, and that I am not as special as you thought, and that I am too difficult to handle, and that I was not worth all of the arguments, and that the sparkle you once saw in my eye was nothing more than a light which once gleamed bright but faded long ago. We won’t talk for two weeks, and you will be able to hear the loss of hope in my voice mails as each ignored call will be another shot to my heart.You will come to my apartment— unable to look up from the ground— carrying a box with the unsure scribble “hers” and filled with memories that I thought would be sealed away in a box for our kids to one day rummage. I will look out the window, unable to say anything because I will be choking on the words that you left me with. And, a month later, I will walk by the same coffee shop and the man who usually sits in the back corner will look up and wonder why the girl who just walked by ran away in tears, nearly being hit by the passing traffic, nearly losing her life, nearly feeling all the same. Six months later I will finally find the strength to pick up my pen and write once more, beginning with the sentence:
‘I met you at fourteen with the half-hearted dream of falling in love, living through the sugar-coated fallacy that every girl needs a boy to make her feel complete.’
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