You’re thirteen years old and you’ve just started a new sport at a new club. You don’t know anyone, but there’s a guy a year younger than you who intrigues you, and you can’t help but hope that you’ll get to know him better. He seems to think himself your rival, but all you can think about is how much you want a friend.
You’re fourteen years old and you’ve gotten to know the boy better. He makes you laugh every time you’re together, and conversations never seem dull with the boy. Yet you find yourself becoming jealous. Whenever he talks with other people, you wish that you could just be included and get a second more of his attention. You’ve started packing an extra water bottle for whenever he forgets his. You don’t know what’s growing in your chest.
You’re fifteen years old and you think you only have a crush on the boy. Never mind how he never fails to make you smile, and how you find yourself wishing you could be with him when you’re apart. The boy has finally called you his friend, and the overwhelming joy of being thought of as that is almost drowned by a voice saying “can’t we be more?”
You’re fifteen years old, and you and the boy take a bus together twice a week. You take a detour that takes forty minutes more than the fastest bus home, but every second is worth it. You love how your shoulders and legs press together in the cramped bus. This is the only human contact you’ve had besides punches in the last two years. But you want more than what you have, and you feel guilty for wanting more. You’re afraid of being seen as a creep.
You’re fifteen and a half years old, and you’re scared for your health. You start writing letters and poems to the boy, of which you will show him none. You can’t keep this in for much longer, you think. But you can’t ever get the courage to tell him, and so you write letters to get it all out. None of the poems are good, but does it really matter? They have a soul, and that soul screams that it wants love. The boy has introduced you to a game called Far Cry 5, and you play it with him during quarantine. You wish you could play with him forever.
You’re sixteen years old, and you’re so fucked. You haven’t stopped loving the boy, and you can’t help but wonder if he feels the same. You’re practically draped over him on the bus now, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You can’t help but wonder if this means anything, but from how he never wants to hang out outside of training, you brush it off. If he truly felt an ounce of the same you feel for him, he would’ve said yes at least once, right?
You’re seventeen years old and you can’t keep it in any longer. You’re so in love with the boy that it hurts. The closest contact you’ve had with him is through shared cigarettes and water bottles. You savour every last second of those moments. The burning in your lungs from that first drag will forever stain you, and you don’t think you can smoke again without thinking of him. He invites you to a party in an abandoned warehouse, but it fell through after a fire started. Before that, he said that he knew someone that could get you drinks. You don’t like how much he wanted you to drink vodka, even after you told him you hadn’t drunk much before and that a small wine would be better. But even though he makes you feel unsafe, he feels like home. He is the racecar, and he is the seatbelt. But he is driving too fast and running through red lights, and you don’t know if you will ever get used to it.
You’re seventeen years old, and a snowstorm has stopped all the buses. Your parents come to pick you up, but his are not here. You offer him a ride, and he accepts. Your dad tells you that you might not have enough fuel to drive the boy to the other side of town and back again. You stop at home, and see how the other car fares. While your parents check the cars, you offer the boy a place to stay until tomorrow if the cars fail, and he says he’ll stay if the cars won’t start. The tiniest car your parents own has just enough fuel, and you drive the boy back to the safety of his own home. You’ve never wanted a car to break down more than you did that night.
You’re almost seventeen and a half years old, and the boy said he wants to move out once he turns eighteen. He bemoans how he hates living with his parents, and now he feels trapped. You realise you will move out once you’re nineteen and the boy is eighteen, as you need to move out once you start university. Quietly, you ask the boy if he wants to tour shared houses and dorms with you next summer. He accepts, and you can’t wait until you’re done with your last year at school
You’re seventeen and a half years old, and you’ve just lost the only guy you’ve ever loved. You last talked to him while you played together for nine hours, and after that, he stopped coming to training. You don’t believe he’s truly quit until two months have passed, and how you mourn him and what could have been if you hadn’t been a coward. You’re seventeen and a half years old, and it feels like the world has ended with him. You feel like a part of you is forever lost.
You’re eighteen years old, and you still miss the boy. You tell yourself that you’ve gotten over the boy, but have you really? You hope you can see him again someday, but you don’t know what you would do. Would you punch him? Hug him? Confess everything that has weighed you down these last four years? Or would you just ignore him, just like he ignored you? You don’t know what you would do, all you know is that you want to see him again.
You’re twenty years old, and you have moved on with your life. You started studying last year, and your life isn’t a bit like it was when you were thirteen. Just for fun, you have a dating app installed, even though you rarely meet up with anyone. One day, his profile pops up. Suddenly, you’re hit by a wave of memories, and you close the app immediately. You start to imagine a future where you match and catch up, one where you finally prove something to the thirteen year-old who fell for him. One where you can finally prove to yourself that you are deserving of someone looking your way twice.
You’re twenty years old, and you remember how bad it was being his friend. You remember how you constantly had to fight for just a goddamn second of his time. You remember how you always felt like you had to be the most interesting person in the room for him to even listen to you. You remember how he left without a word, and what a goddamn mess you became.
