When I first met my ‘first love,’ I was yet to have experienced any devastating heartbreak, so I was so vulnerably naive and excited to feel the butterflies in my stomach. Only if I had known that that feeling was the sign of the most heartless despair, I would’ve no doubt swayed away from this chapter of my life.
The anticipation for his name to appear on my phone screen or even a mere chance to “accidentally” bump into him gave me shivering hopes as a mean for ‘us’ to finally happen. Each phone call, each word, each smile he showed gave me uneasy yet delightful daydreams of that final day he would realize what a gem I am. And to my joy, ‘we’ happened. Without explicitly expressing my desperate feelings for him, my strategy of embedding my presence in his life worked and soon enough, we were labeled an item.
I loved each moment I shared with him. Each fight gave me more hope than despair, as I believed it would strengthen our relationship for the better. For almost a year, I had more love and fun in me than I have ever, all because he never neglected my efforts to keep our relationship strong. But I never made anything look too obvious, or better yet actually tried to seem oblivious to any flaws that surfaced from him and assured myself, “he’s only human.” But my incessant efforts of pretending our destined compatibility soon tired me out, and when I gasped that brief breath of air, he’d already sensed the bluff of our relationship I had tried so hard conceal.
And like that, ‘we’ were gone.
No, he was gone. I was still at the same place where we left off, waiting for him to overlook my weary-state and realize that I had taken my breath of relief to last another year, only if he’d agree to come back to me.
But this never happened; he never came back.
For weeks, I couldn’t eat or drink anything but my own tears to sleep, which worried my friends greatly. They tried to console me, feed me, even bad-mouth my now ex-boyfriend as a mean to bring my cheery self back. But as much as I appreciated their constant tries of comfort, nothing, absolutely nothing could help me overcome the fact that he was gone. Easier than how night follows day, he vanished from my life. And even it being my own breakup, I still couldn’t see how his actions were possible. I mean, how do you wash down a year of each other’s presence down the drain with absolutely no visible remorse? Weren’t we in the same relationship? Shouldn’t we have had the same amount of love for each other? Then shouldn’t we hurt the same?
It simply wasn’t fair.
I adored him in ways no one else could, overlooked even his most fatal flaws and embraced them with a seemingly naive mis-acknowledgement that wouldn’t alter his pride. Blatantly put, he fell short at night. Or in other words, his love-making was lame. Or maybe his sole presence aroused me too greatly, which no pleasure could surmount the turn-on. Also, his other flaw… Being an English major and a language lover myself, his too often display of ignorant uses of vocabularies and grammar in English bothered me greatly. Though I never pointed them out because, again, I couldn’t bear to hurt his pride, his most prized obsession.
It’s been two years already and to my unexpectant yet delightful surprise, I met a few great people along the way. One special person, though not together anymore, helped me overcome my fear of loving and losing by showing me that the most important aspect of a relationship is trust and appreciation. I don’t self-deprecate myself, or let alone blame only myself for the sorry outcome of my ‘first love’.
To this day, I still think he is the one incapable of love because one who doesn’t know how to appropriately or at least appreciatively receive love, cannot give.
The only thing I got out of this relationship was realizing my capability of loving someone wholeheartedly.
“If it was something so light it could end in one night, we were fooling ourselves the whole time.”
Please share your “first love” stories. From beautiful to horrendous, they’re only
Also check out my new post: All Too Soon.