At 14, the only thing she was really sure about was that high school was coming, the boy she currently loved, didn’t love her, and there was nothing she could do about either. She had plenty of friends, although only two remained with her, and the rest became entirely irrelevant. Some broke off the friendship because of fights, others because neither of them cared enough to maintain what once was. She was smart, although not smart enough, and quiet, but her thoughts were far too loud.
At 14, all that really mattered were boys, and friends, and the amount of likes she got on her profile picture. She was enthralled by the exciting world that lived within her computer. She was fascinated with the idea that she could be anyone, say anything, and do whatever, from the safety of her home, in the warmth of her bed, typing away on a keyboard that knew her secrets too well.
At 14, she loved a boy who was 15. He was nothing special, he didn’t know her at all, and it seemed that he only cared about her when she took her shirt off. She pretended that he made her happy, and he sometimes did. But mostly, he made her feel worthless, and insignificant, and he made her hate herself. He wasn’t a bad guy. He made her laugh, and when he kissed her, she liked it, and there was always heat and chemistry and passion, as much as there could be when she was 14. But there was never warmth in that passion, never safety. He was never someone she called when she was sad, and she was never that for him either. He was her first love, but she still doubts who she was to him, if she even was anything at all.
At 14, when she realized that the boy she loved would never love her, and they had they’re seventeenth goodbye, she made a vow to move on. But moving on, for her, came in the form of another boy. So she met a boy who fell in love with her. He was everything her past was not, but nothing she seemed to want. They shared their first kiss, which paralleled their last, and all the time in between was time she was confusingly grateful to have had. He later told her he fell in love the first time they kissed. She, however, fell in love with him so slowly; she didn’t know it had happened until she thought she lost him. But she didn’t lose him, not then at least; because he said he’d always be there, and that’d he’d never leave her.
Then came 15. At 15, it was hard to grasp what was happening to her. She knew how she felt, and how strong those feelings had gotten. She didn’t, however, know how dangerous those feelings would become. Distance for the two of them was never a problem, and long, cold, scary nights were never spent alone. They spent hours upon hours with each other, and at night, hours upon hours devoted to each other over the phone. He made her feel safe, and the passion came with the warmth, and the love was finally there and she couldn’t imagine herself without him.
15 was almost 16, and the boy who was forever in love with her, was pulling away. The closest she’d ever been with someone, the most honest, and vulnerable, brought her down to her knees. The worst thing in life is loving someone too much; that you’re unable to see when the light goes out and the love has changed. What she knew from the begging, that they would never last, but forgot about somewhere in the middle, was coming back now and bringing it all to an end. The hours upon hours of hugs and forehead kisses soon became one hour, if that, and kisses that felt more like goodbyes than hellos.
Two weeks until 16, and he left her alone. When she vowed to move on from her 14 year old love, she promised never to fall for another boy she knew would break her heart. But this love, this 15-year-old love, was so sneaky that it slipped through her defenses and planted itself so far within her, that she could never get it out. He left her. Everything she thought she was, the strength she thought she had was lost. She felt herself losing the one thing in the whole world that kept her together. He walked away before she could stop him, and for the first time, at 16, she was completely alone.
16 started off as a badly. She was rarely happy, but she tried everything to make herself feel anything other than pain. She thought she was perpetually alone, and nothing anyone could say, changed that. He was no longer the warm, loving, beautiful person she once knew. He got new friends, met a new girl, and continued living his life like nothing had happened. She found it odd how her world could be crumbing so rapidly, and his was still going strong. She didn’t understand how someone who loved her so much could be so okay without her. Her screaming thoughts turned into constant cries for help, and relentless pleads for release, until the sight of blood began to comfort her
At 16, she chose to believe he didn’t know how much pain she was in. Because believing that he knew, and did nothing to try to help, hurt more than anyone could ever know. So she continued living her 16-year-old life, with her sad songs and lingering scars, and waited for a sign that he still loved her. But the sign never came, and she felt him loving her less, and her heart broke more and more each day. But she tried. She really did try. She smiled more, and laughed more, and angrily wrote about him more, because hating him, or at least pretending to, was better than loving him. And she was too hurt, and too closed off to see that he was hurting too.
And then came December 8th. There’s never warning for things like this, because on December 8th she was happy. She was with her friends and she was laughing and she was feeling better than she had in a while. Then a picture of him at some party with some friends brought back that terrible gut feeling she used to get whenever she thought about what she’d lost. 11:30 pm brought a phone call, followed by the frantic voice of an estranged friend. She said there had been an accident, that he was hurt, but she didn’t know much else. It’s hard to explain what happened next, because it was all a blur. Phone calls were made to his friends, then to the hospital, then finally, to his mother.
“He’s dead”.
16 years of pain, of heartbreak, of laughter, of joy, of learning, and overcoming, could not have prepared her for this. The world that had already fallen apart was nothing compared to the pain she felt when a part of her soul died. He had taken more from her than she could ever know, until she realized that it was all gone along with him. She was empty. She was now nothing more than the vessel of a girl she once knew. He was gone, and so was she.
7 voicemails are all that she has of his. 7 voicemails and a sweater he lent her once. She could never help but wonder how someone could die and leave someone they loved with nothing more than 7 voicemails, a sweater, and some bittersweet memories. She was angry and confused and the God she once believed in, died that day too. That 14-year-old love, and all the boys she’s ever loved, will never compare to this love. There was something magical, something story-like about their history. Like Gatsby, these two were never meant to be. The love they shared was only that of a dream, and could never last. Like Romeo and Juliet, coming from vastly different lives, their paths crossed, their lives were forever changed, and when Romeo died, Juliet did too.
She will never forget her Romeo, and he will never forget his Juliet. She will always remember his forehead kisses, and try to remember them as hellos rather than goodbyes. She will think of him when she’s happy, and talk to him at night. She will love him until the end of time, and one day, when her time comes, they will meet again. This time, their story will not be like Gatsby or Romeo and Juliet. It will be joyful, it will end well, and she will finally be happy.