Letters to People I Used To Love

I

I fell in love with you in a convenience store on a school trip to Boston.

It was a terrible scene, really, but it hit me while we stood in line. You talked to me, which was unusual. I never was the talkative type. We hadn't spoken in about three years.

So there I was, clad in my oversized sweatshirt that was a trademark of my formative years, falling in love with a cheese stick in hand and a Diet Coke. You asked one of our mutual friends for my number because you were too shy to ask me yourself.

I remembered in fifth grade you had a crush on her. It irked me. Especially when you, in eighth grade gym, talked to her more than me. It broke my heart. I saw it as people choosing her over me. I wasn't one people often had crushes on. I was chubby, awkward, and kind of a dork. I didn't think I had a chance.

Then, you told me you were moving. You were moving out of our shitty up-and-coming Alabama town to some big metropolitan city that was too far away. I didn't tell you I liked you then, considering I didn't think I had a chance.

I told you, 3 AM, a few months later. You told me it was reciprocated.

I should have told you sooner. It stings to think about the fact that maybe I would have had a chance, had I gotten over my nerves.

I fell in love with the boy in Boston, his eyes illuminated by signs in the night. It's one of my bigger regrets that I didn't mention it sooner.