To the one I’ll always miss,
We have a history, oh boy, do we have a history. It’s full of smiles and laughter and late night text messages, full of happiness and distance and pain, full of lyrics and miscommunication, wrapped up nicely in a drunken confession and topped with a bow of memories.
We were once two kids who spent a lot of time sending hearts and smiley faces back and forth over text message. I told you that I was scared of almost everything – and initially that meant spiders and horror movies, but it began to mean fear of love and pain. You mentioned to me that I deserved to be chased – but one can only expect to be followed so many times before the chasing ceases. I thought that I could simply run from my fear and that I would be protected—so I ran. I made up some excuse that I can no longer remember about why I left you: the real reason? I was in love with you. I was in love with you, and that was terrifying in a way that was much worse than any spider. Being in love with you meant you could hurt me, and I wasn’t prepared for that. I bolted – running only hurt the both of us, and I’m sorry for that.
I am fully aware that the love I felt for you is nothing compared to what a wife feels for a husband, but it was still important to me. I think your first love is always important to you. You were the first guy – that I wasn’t related to – to make me feel like I was beautiful and wonderful. You made me feel like I was doing things right with you. You made me feel special. I can’t thank you enough for showing me how I deserve to be treated by a man. You set the bar high and I have yet to settle for anything less.
We once talked about how we’d always be a part of one another, holding the coveted role of the first kiss. It was awkward and amazing and is still a very fond memory of mine. I should have been embarrassed but you made me feel so comfortable. When people ask about my first kiss I can’t help but smile as I tell our story – I often wonder if you do the same. But I suppose guys don’t talk about things like that in the same sentimental and sappy way that my friends and I tend to do.
I am not the girl that fell in love with you. I’m a young woman who is out there doing things: I’m still scared, but I’m a little more willing to work with those fears. I am sure that you’re no longer the boy I loved. We have grown into the adults we once speculated being.
But a part of me still misses you. I think I might always miss you, just a little bit. When our song comes on I’ll always stop for a second and allow myself to be flooded by memories. When I return home and drive by our spot, I’ll smile. And when, years from now, my kids ask about my first love I’ll confess that it wasn’t their father, but the sweet boy with the kind eyes that I met in the ninth grade, and whose words and actions have stuck with me for much longer than I ever anticipated.
—Maggie