Unrequited love sounded so poetic when I was fourteen. I would sit in my room listening to songs like "Dreaming Of You" by Selena and daydreaming about the moment you'd realize how much I loved you and how much you suddenly loved me too. I had vivid images of it, rehearsed conversations; I didn't think it would ever happen, but boy did I prepare for it in case it did. Honestly, I did this an embarrassing amount.
I wrote poetry about you. Bad poetry. I mean, really just terrible poetry. (I tried to read some of it a year or so ago. I couldn't.)
I remember the first time you kissed me. It wasn't because you had any affection for me; it was because you liked to kiss, and because you knew I loved you, and you were just egotistical enough to kiss someone just because you knew it would make them fawn over you more. But what did I know? This tall, handsome boy, with black hair that hung in his eyes and a way of talking that was so smooth I forgot who I was, had just kissed me. Soft lips, like I had imagined. I danced around my living room for an hour afterwards, called my best friend to shriek about how excited I was–as a young teenager does, you know? I was in love.
I didn't know what those four letters meant then. Like most teenagers, I confused it with infatuation; it was so overwhelming and all-encompassing that I thought for sure it has to be the Real Thing.
You, though–you taught me what love was, though I don't think you meant to.
You wanted to teach me what sex was. You wanted to teach me what drunk was. Specifically, you wanted to teach me those two things together, because you knew you couldn't get one from me without the other. I didn't realize what that meant for years, counting my blessings I never accepted the booze you had offered me whenever I was alone with you. As far as love, sometimes I still think the only person you've ever really loved was yourself, and I don't know how I didn't see that for so many years.
You taught me what love was only in hindsight. Only in comparison with the way snow falls, or with the way poetry tastes, or with the way I learned to love much later. Maybe I was naive, but it took the kind of love that is selfless to make me realize how selfish you were. You liked to be wanted, and I think a little bit you liked the possibility that you could manipulate someone into doing what you wanted. I'm grateful you never got what you wanted from me.
You didn't change much as time went on. Last time I saw you was just a few years ago and you still didn't seem to know what respect meant. But nonetheless, I'm also grateful to have thought I loved you. It made me a walking cliche for as long as it lasted, but it gave me perspective. Now, I tell my husband I love him, I think about my future with him, and I think about what love once meant to me, and I know that this is the Real Thing. I remember infatuation. I remember self-serving affection. Thanks to you, I will never forget the difference or take what I have now for granted.
If I never see you again, I'm more than okay with that. There are parts of my past that you took up that I wish had never happened. But I'll take the embarrassing memory of how much I thought I loved you if it means I can appreciate real, absolute, selfless love that much more.