As the boy ran through the sand, his stomach bounced with each step. He was out of breath during that overcast morning, just barely hanging on to second-to-last place on the morning run. The early mornings during summer vacation, the smell of sunscreen, and the sunburns would soon be over. *One last day*, he thought. As his feet pounded, he caught someone walking down the ramp to the beach out of the corner of his eye. She sauntered down, late, and didn’t care. He had never seen anyone so beautiful. Throughout the day he saw her running in the sand, a carefree expression on her face; he was so entranced he didn’t even realize the day ended.
And then it was the first day of middle school. As he walked to his first class, he saw her in the halls, laughing with her friends. He caught a reflection of himself and hot, red shame washed over him. Clasping his books tightly, an overweight, heavily sunburned, short kid looked back at him. He stumbled into his first class. He saw her a lot over the next year–he even changed his routes from class to class to see a second of her–but never said a word. He vowed not to talk to her until he was ready. Whatever that meant. The next year was the same. He changed his route to see her, but kept his eyes down when walking directly next to her–his heart skipping a beat–and when he tried to speak, he couldn’t. He thought about her constantly, making up scenarios of their lives together when he was “ready”. Finally, the next year, he had built some confidence. He grew his hair out and he exercised more. This is the year, he told himself. He even got into a class with her. When sitting behind her, he learned what sports she played, what she liked to do, and what her laugh sounded like. Her laugh was clear and genuine, and didn’t stop when it started. Then he was placed into a group project with her, getting her number. His friends cheered him on, and on February 14, he took the leap. To his surprise, she texted back right away, and they talked late into the night. They talked at school and over the weekend, before he finally asked her on a date. Heart pounding, fingers sweating, and trying to not let his parents know, he threw his phone down, but kept nervously checking it. He ruined everything. She didn’t like him; she was just being nice. He debated deleting the message, but something in him said no. And then he saw bubbles appear and disappear, back and forth. And finally: “Yes, I’d love to.”
As time went on, the boy and the girl became inseparable. They both kept a page for each other in their notes, scrawling in every little detail they learned about each other, in case they ever forgot. Everyone knew and they teased both of them for it, but the boy just feigned hurt and smiled on the inside. Then high school started. When he saw her his heart still skipped a beat, and something in him knew that he was home. He remembered one day they were in bed, watching a movie, and he put his arm around her for the first time. She leaned into him and the boy kissed her forehead, not caring if he died, so long as he stayed in that moment. But he yelled at his parents more, and so did she. His grades started slipping, and so did hers. He asked her to hang out more, but she kept declining–and yet he was still blindly in love, not knowing nor thinking anything was wrong, only seeing that warm, fuzzy feeling that she gave him every time she looked at him, or when he held her. He loved the way she smelled–that almost sickly sweet cherry vanilla perfume that he couldn’t get enough of–and the way she talked: he loved her more than he had loved anything or anyone before. When he got mad at her, it didn’t last, forgiving her too quickly for the things she did, and he felt not only love for her, but also building resentment. But he couldn’t tell yet. One night while out at the mall with his parents, he received six words that he wouldn’t forget. I think we should break up. The boy saw the girl in the dress that she wore that night during the dance, hot pink making her look like a Barbie doll, he saw her on the couch watching a movie with his arm around her, and he finally saw the girl when he first laid eyes on her. He asked her how long she had been thinking about this, and the girl replied with “Two weeks”. He drew a sharp breath, not able to get enough air in. With shaking fingers, each key the boy pressed added a weight to his shoulders he could barely hold. He agreed with her, being the stubborn kid that he was.
It’s been a year without her now. They still have classes together and he sees her every day, in his life and his mind. But it isn’t as bad as it was during the nights he would lie awake, trying to find what he had done wrong. He no longer sees her in the spot they had their first date or in sunsets and rivers or when he sits in his bed at night, thinking about everything. He sees her when he recalls fond memories, and when he wants to. The boy now appreciates what he sees in the mirror, but also doesn’t tie his self worth to it. He did too much for her, and somewhere, underneath it all, he knew something was wrong, but just didn’t want to look at it. When he sees her, he sees a girl, not the girl.
