This is me at fifteen. Doing… whatever it is you do at fifteen. Drawing, dancing. When you’re still new to the world, but… you feel like you finally understand it. Hopeful. Naive. This… is her at fifteen. God. She was beautiful. Funny, and creative, too. I knew from the first moment I saw her. I guess so did she. It pretty much goes the way you’d expect it to go. The awkwardness at first, having nothing to talk about. The flirting, the falling, the not being able to tell my friends because they didn’t know I like girls. Which… was hard. Maybe that’s what makes it different from how you’d expect it to go. But then… there’s the first kiss. And the period where you feel on top of the world. Like everything is perfect, like no one can touch you, like nothing could take you down. Adventuring together, going to prom, spending hours just talking, and dancing, and laughing. Just… being together. Being in love. And the funny looks don’t bother you. The snide remarks from strangers, parents, friends, it doesn’t matter! It didn’t matter. Not to us. Not then. But then… I don’t know. Maybe it started to. Then… there’s the fighting, and the not really fighting, but you’re angry, And not being on the same page, no matter how hard you try to get there. I’d rather not remember those parts. Maybe first love isn’t meant to last. Or maybe we were too young to know how to make it work. Or maybe… we just grew apart. Maybe everyone in love grows apart, eventually. I don’t know. But… it was love. Messy, and dependent, and flawed, but we were in love! And… maybe that wouldn’t mean much in ten years, fifty, but it meant something then. This is us at fifteen. Wishing we could freeze that moment, and stay in it, forever.