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  • The first, and only time, I have been in love so far was when I was 24. We met in human sexuality class.

    I thought he was really cute. The way he had really long eyelashes, the way his dark brown hair fell perfectly around his face. He had an angular face, the kind of face I always wanted. He had a strong chin and nice cheekbones. I would stare at him and hope he wasn’t looking. And he was super funny. Always making jokes in class, but not in a disrespectful way. He always brought his guitar with him, and it always sat in the corner of the classroom. He had a black and white patch safety pinned onto the front of the case. It was a patch of two kids holding arms with the words, “These are all the arms we need.” I thought that the patch meant he was sweet, behind his sarcastic demeanor. And he actually really was.

    The first time we kissed, we were watching Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire dancing, and I said I had a stomach ache. He rubbed my stomach, and I could tell he was nervous. He didn’t want to make the first move. And that was really quite endearing. After we kissed, he played music, held me close, looked into my eyes, and danced with me. It felt so different and yet familiar; I felt the way I imagined people falling in love looked to be feeling in movies. I guess that’s all I had to compare it to. And it still does feel special, just remembering it. He played lots of music for me I’d never heard, and we would sit and listen to songs together. We would just lay on the couch, and he would tell me he liked simply doing nothing with me, and I really felt the same way.

    I don’t know what to write at this point in the telling of this story. I mean, it didn’t work out, in the sense that we eventually broke up, anyway. But it did work out in every other way; it did work out in the sense that I really and truly loved him. I cared about him in a way I was afraid I never would be able to care for someone. I was too afraid I would be really cruel or something, but I actually never was. I really liked who I was around him. I just liked the parts of my personality that came out. The kind part, the compassionate part, the wanting to just be a good person parts, you know? I didn’t feel awkward, or uncomfortable. I didn’t feel like I had to be something or that what I was somehow wasn’t enough for him. And when it ended, we cried and told each other how much we loved each other, and yes, that it just wasn’t enough. I won’t get into the specifics, because honestly, it would seem too corny - the specifics just aren’t fitting in this story I have concocted. So I’ll just leave it as it is.

    When we broke up, he even told me that he knew I would be an amazing mother one day, which was very sweet. Actually, it was probably one of the kindest things he could have said to me.
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