A letter to my first love

(Weirdly enough, this a request post that I’ve written at the advice of someone who will always have a special place in my heart. I really enjoyed creating it both as a writing exercise and as an emotional release. If you’re reading this and you think it might be about you – it isn’t. Unless of course, it is about you. And then you’ll know it for sure.)

I remember the day we met. Valentine’s Day of a year I don’t recall. Everyone who means something to me is lucky enough to have the image of the moment I first saw them burned into my mind forever. Yours was one of the first. I remember walking into that room and seeing you there, surrounded yet alone and I knew, maybe in hindsight, but I knew, that you were someone who would mean something real to me.

The first thing I want to say is that I’m sorry that I came to you broken. Not broken hearted, but broken in the way that’s only been repaired by even more horrific events pushing the ones breaking me then into the distant past, numbing them down to a simple ‘life lesson’ or ‘previous experience’. If I had had any kind of self restraint or respect I would have waited until I at least realised how broken I really was. But I went right in, guns blazing and loved you. I took you as mine before you’d even turned around. I’m sorry I didn’t give you any time.

I’m sorry that I used you. I used you to get over, to get under, to get away. I know that you used me too and I pushed you back into your problems that you just couldn’t face. But I’m sorry that I took advantage of you, I’m sorry that I shunted you up into the clouds when you were already so far gone from reality. I’m sorry that I made you take things so quickly when your whole world was slipping away right before your eyes. I’m sorry that I never listened to you when you said you didn’t want to go home. I know now that I should have gone with you, tackled problems next to you instead of a little way behind you, pushing you along. I’m sorry.

I still have everything you’ve ever written for me. The love letters you pressed into the palm of my hand and the notes you slipped silently into my pocket. I still know your handwriting just like my own, just like I still know the feel of your skin and the way you smell, where your freckles and your tattoos are, and places most other people will never get to see. I remember every part of you, just like I remember the feeling of breaking in half when you wouldn’t look me in the eye.

I remember all the times I ran down the street after you to kiss you where no one could see us, sneaking through windows and staying up late talking about the future that we’d all but forget in the morning. I remember the feeling of looking at you in a room full of people who had no idea that you were mine, and wanting to cling onto it, to you. Now I walk by your parents house and the places we would meet and the dull ache returns as though it has been there all along in the bottom of my stomach, in the back of my mind.

I also want to just say thank you. Thank you for teaching me at a young age about the realities of mortality and how to help instead of hinder. Thank you for letting me explore you and learn how to love someone. Thank you for getting over me so quickly that I had no choice but to get over you and at the same time never love again.

For years I have thought of writing to you, got as far as putting words on paper and ripping them up or slipping them into a drawer to be forgotten about. Now I’m ready to tell you but I don’t know where to find you, so I’m hoping you might read it here.

I hope you have everything you ever want. x

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