He was not the first boy that I said “I love you” to. We don’t have an epic love story, like Seth and Summer, Cory and Topanga, Luke and Peyton, not anywhere close to any relationship really. All I know is that I was, and have been for the past seven years, that girl he could always go to if he was ever lonely.
I don’t remember our first conversation. I don’t even remember how we started “talking.” I remember the holding hands though. The walking to class. The skipping class.
I remember the moment he told me I was too young. The moment people decided to ask me how my heart was. The moment I knew he was cheating on his girlfriend with other various girls, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be one of the girls he cheated with.
I was that pathetic.
I remember how his kisses tasted like cigarettes and Oreos the first time we had sex. I remember when he first told me he loved me. I remember every fight and frustration I carried with me.
I gave into him every time, despite warning signs. Despite his undependability. Despite my own intuition. Just because I thought he actually loved me.
I saw him again a couple of weeks ago for the first time in person in about three and a half years ago. I think that was when it hit me. Despite the [horrible] escapade we indulged in that night, I’ve grown up so much in the past year and I finally realized that not that I was better than him or that I could do better than him, but that I just no longer cared.
That night we were two empty, lonely bodies, pouring into a sin that man had created, trying to recreate something we may had a few years back, and I just wasn’t attracted anymore.
I don’t really regret much. I’m glad that I met him, and I’ll probably always wish for the best for him, but now that I know for sure that I’m not supposed to be a part of his life, life can now progress in the way it’s supposed to now.
What a relief.