I never said this all out loud, but somewhere deep inside that’s what I expected my future relationship to look like.
Of course, my first relationship at 15 didn’t pan out that way at all. To begin with, I wasn’t even that interested in him—we got together because we were bored teenagers who wanted to explore what it was: the 24/7 texting and talking, going out on dates and holding hands in public, and being known as a girlfriend and as having a boyfriend.
He promised to love and protect me, and to marry me one day even. While I initially batted these proclamations of love away, a part of me shyly, truly, believed in our future together—in him, as a person, as my boyfriend.
In hindsight, the both of us just wanted to feel loved. Sure, we experienced the giddy infatuation of a first love—but also the inevitable heartbreak stemming from our immaturity and inability to love each other, imperfections and all.
Our breakup and his disappearance from my life was as sudden and swift, as the many promises he had made to me throughout the course of our short-lived romance—promises which I had clung to, and later cried over for a long time.