This is not a story. This is real. This is my life.

People said that I was too young for love. They said I couldn’t experience heartbreak.

The first time he came over to my house, I started crushing. He was 16, I was 10. I knew he was just being himself. He probably never saw interest in me. I was just a silly little kid, and he was just trying to entertain me. So it seemed.

He was everything I wanted: funny, witty, artistic, playful. I kept a journal of all the boys I liked, and all the pages were mostly filled with him. The Mission Art Walk card. Little things. The other boys were just temporary crushes, cute but not really like. He was different. I fell heads over heels for him. I really loved him. Every day, I’d sit and imagine life for one day with him. Together. Alone.

Years passed, I turned 12, he turned 18. The last time he came over, he kept on asking me to sneak out to a dance. He said that maybe he’d take a Perusian girl with a heavy accent. Maybe.

I came home from basketball practice, and made a habit out of myself to check his house to see if the attic window light was on. He lives on my block, and I am so grateful for that. The door was open, and he and another girl, brunette with hair pulled back into a ponytail, were talking. He seemed to laugh, and time slowed. I stared, he turned around, and shock, confusion, and something else flashed across his face. Then it was over, I was gone, down the street in my dad’s car.

Now, he’s gone to college, and I’m still here. He’ll probably find a girl there, the light of his life, and I’ll be here, hiding my love. I convinced myself he liked me, I guess not. I guess I’m just a dreamer.

(Screen) Name: Kit Kat

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