text: On the night I met him, I knew he would be something special to me. I didn’t know what, but I knew. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I didn’t love him then, but I knew, at some point, I would love him. That night, we were on the bus back to the hotel we were both staying at and he asked if I wanted to share his headphones. We sat quietly, hands in our laps, afraid to let our elbows touch while our souls became tied together by the wires on his old earbuds that were just a little too short for comfort between us. As one song came to an end and the next began, he looked at me. “Please don’t make fun of me for this song,” he looked so vulnerable. “I love this song!” I said it a little too loud, trying not to make him feel like I was judging him. It was true, I did love that song. I didn’t say it then, but I’d been listening to it practically on repeat for the past few weeks. As we sat, I could see his eyes moving, and I knew where they were looking. Such topics are taboo among strangers, though. Nevertheless, he asked. “What happened to your wrist?” I became defensive, but his eyes weren’t the only ones wandering. “What happened to yours?” he just looked at me. We sat the rest of the bus ride in silence, but we could both sense the other’s anxiety. Just before we pulled in, he got a call, but he quickly turned his phone over. “Was that your girlfriend?” I teased. “Yeah, actually, but we both know it’s pretty much over.” I was quiet after that. We said goodbye and went our separate ways. He texted me almost as soon as I got to my room. “Hey :) what’s up?” I could already feel the butterflies when I saw his name pop up on my screen. I told myself I wouldn’t fall. I was 2,516 miles from home, and I had no idea how far away from me he lived. I pushed my feelings from the bus as far down into the bottom of my stomach as I could as we talked, but I couldn’t hold back the little smiles. He wanted to show me something he’d learned, and he asked me to come meet him in the stairs at 11:45. I was so nervous. I walked to the fire escape, and I could feel my heart trying to choke me before I made it down. I can’t remember what we talked about standing there in the fire escape just before midnight, but I remember walking away so happy. He would tell me later that after he left, he’d come back to the stairs to see if I was still there. He wanted me to go out with him that night, but he’d been too afraid to ask and I’d already gone. I still tease him for it, for being too scared to ask me the first time. We always wonder what would’ve happened if he had. Two days later, we were on different planes headed to different states. He wouldn’t go to bed until I was home safe. I’d never felt more special. Until then, I’d had no romantic endeavors, and the fact that he seemed to be interested in me made my whole world glow. In the back of my mind, though, I remembered the phone call. I could feel a small knot in the bottom of my stomach, but I ignored it. Little did I know this was the first time I would feel something I’d come to know like the back of my hand. About two weeks later, things officially ended with his girlfriend. For the next few months, I was on top of the world. He gave me everything he could, despite the 1,818 miles between us. Oh, how in love I fell. I remember the first time he told me he loved me, the promises he made, the little things he’d say just to make me smile. It seemed that finally, after so long, things were beginning to look up for me. My depression was becoming manageable and I had someone who I could talk to who knew what I was going through. He only let me call him baby once. He told me the distance would make a relationship too hard for both of us, but it was okay for us to love each other. He told me he’d always love me, and when the time was right, we’d make it work. I believed him. Around the fourth month, though, came the beginning of the end of my world. He and his ex, the girl who’d called him on the bus, began getting together again. It started as a way for him to manage his mental issues, but soon they were together again. Everyone knew it wouldn’t last, but I’ll never forget the way my stomach dropped every time I would see pictures of them. I was in a position where I held no power. I couldn’t tell him I didn’t want her around, I wasn’t his girlfriend. I couldn’t say I was jealous; I didn’t hold such a position in his life. For those few brief months, I toughed it out. Every night I reminded him that I loved him, and I’d always wait for him. Every day he’d remind me that he still loved me too, and we still talked about all the things we used to. All our dreams, all our hopes, how we couldn’t wait to see each other. Finally, when it ended for the second time, I sat and listened to him on the phone while he cried. In the weeks following, his drinking picked up. I’d wake up to him calling, drunk again, telling me how he was going to hurt himself, and I’d talk until he was sober, and I knew he was safe. It didn’t help that his relationship with his dad fell apart around this time, too. Oh, so many phone calls. So many late nights. But I loved that boy. One day I got a call. Nothing unusual, he called pretty often. I picked up and I could hear that he was upset. “She’s telling me she’s pregnant.” “What?” “I don’t know what to do, she’s telling me she’s pregnant.” She wasn’t pregnant. I had my suspicions from the beginning, but of course I had to be there for him first. He told me over and over he couldn’t do this. When the truth came out and he was in a place to talk about it, I’d ask him what he would’ve done if it’d been true. “Honest to God I would’ve killed myself. Not because I don’t want to be a part of the kid’s life, but because I couldn’t be any good for the kid knowing that I can’t even be good for myself.” I will never forget those words. For the next few months he stayed single. It was perfect between us. Until one day something changed. I still don’t know if my anxiety was just heightened that day or I was picking up on subtleties from him, but something was off. We were having a pretty regular conversation for us, and at the end he told me, “You know I’ll always love you, even when I get gfs.” I knew then. There was another girl, and it wasn’t long until I, again, took second place in his life. I was right, and thus began, again, a pain unmatched. Slowly, I fell apart. The days left on read or open, the fear to say how I felt in case he got upset. As the months passed, I could almost always take it. Almost. As long as he still loved me, right? He did still love me. Slowly, though, it became harder and harder to put the fact that I was still the second choice out of my mind. I’d break down more and more. When I needed him, he was almost always there for me. Almost. I fell into some of the worst times I’ve ever been through, but I couldn’t validate them for myself. “This is just your depression. A boy shouldn’t make you feel this awful.” I told myself, but deep down I knew the truth. All those tears, all that anxiety, it was all because of him. There was a time when he told me about the first girl who broke his heart. “You were the first person who I’d listened to that song with since.” I nearly puked. I knew why he didn’t want to be made fun of now. “She was the root of my depression.” In my lowest, in one of my breakdowns, I told him how funny it was that she had done such a thing and yet he seemed to have ho issues doing the same to me. “Are you saying I’m the root of your depression?” “No, no, no... I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t you see you’re hurting me though? Please don’t get upset that isn’t what I meant.” So many of our fights ended like that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m just having a hard time right now.” “It’s ok, kid.” This would be alright for a while; I’d feel bad and apologize again and again until we both forgot about it. But it became harder and harder to ignore the thoughts I knew I shouldn’t be ignoring. Then came the first time he wanted to end it with her. Another late night, up listening to him talk about what was going wrong. By now, I’d become ever so good at not allowing myself to be jealous. It’s something I pride myself on, actually. I’m not jealous of her and I do not hate her. I wish I could have what she has, though. I wish I could be the one making him happy. But right now I’m not and I know that. It became harder and harder to stop the panic attacks and the outbursts, to keep my stomach down when I saw the pictures. “Why do you keep me around? Do you still want me to tell you I love you?” “How many times have I answered that question?” “Too many, I’m sorry. I just get so worried.” But this brings us to now. What am I doing? I know how he treats me isn’t fair. But I can’t help it. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s the first person I’ve loved. Maybe it’s that I just love him too much to walk away. Maybe I’m scared that I’ll never have someone quite like him. Whatever it is, I know I’m not ready to walk away from him yet. I’ve given him my everything, and I intend to continue to. People tell me I love too strongly. I don’t think a person can do that. I still can’t listen to that song, though.