When I think about “My First Love,” I think exciting, the kind of excitement you’d have as a kid when you heard the ice cream truck a few blocks away. I think serenity, like when you lay in the back of a truck bed at night, feeling the warm breeze glaze against your skin delicately, hearing the crickets sing to you their peaceful song, and smiling at the stars twinkling back at you. I think giddiness, the giddiness you get while building intricate forts out of every raidable objet available in your house, or when your significant other proclaims they are proud of you for a small something you had accomplished.

When I think of “My First Heartbreak,” the only word that comes to my mind, is loneliness. The type of lonely that can form a lump in your throat, making it hard to swallow. The type of lonely that assists in forcing you awake at night, wondering what happened to make you feel so very empty. The type of lonely that pulls you into a black goo, and it pulls you so far into the black goo that you almost forget how to find an escape.

My First Love and I had been together for approximately two years, and boy, thinking upon it now, it truly was not a long time. Our relationship was by no means perfect. We would fight, bicker, “refuse” to talk to eachother for a few days, however, it was always a laugh, a serious talk and a hug away from the redemption of the good days, prior to the bad.

A few months ago, it seemed as something had shifted within our relationship. Talking to sunrise till sunset, turned into talking maybe an hour, if I were to be so lucky. Our precious laughs turned into bitter tasting arguments over the terrible and obvious shift in the relationship. It seemed as if I was the only one who noticed, or even cared enough to notice. I found myself pathetically doing anything to get their attention.

Talking ceased to exist, laughs were prehistoric by then, and the attention that I whole-heartedly yearned for, was left behind, like Waldo, when I wouldn’t have the ability to find him in my big book of whatchamacallit.

Soon, I stopped trying to be the needle and thread to stitch the already deeply wounded relationship. It was never actually declared to me that the relationship was finished, but it was so obvious that the beyond had already took off into the cotton candy coloured horizon.

I was devastated. I was lonely. I was left broken hearted by my First Love.

We talked, in teenie tiny amounts, a few months after. Then, I finally had the courage to ask, “Do you still think about it? About us, I mean. Our dreams, our promises for forever?” He had seen it instantly, but I presumed, from his lack of reply for two days, that it was indeed, an absolute no.

I felt completely and utterly stupid. Unfortunately, I needed closure. My closure that I’d yearned for more then their attention at a point in time. Closure that I needed to lift me out of the black goo that has been captivating me in its darkness.

I don’t think I would ever feel free again if I were to be without it. Without closure.

Two days later, I was granted the closure, and pain of the closure, with a measly little, “no,” at approximately 2:00 in the morning, which had woke me up from my slumber.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I read it, so I never actually opened the app, showing him that indeed I had read that painful one word answer, but instead I had read it from my notification bar. While he probably had no clue I had this in mind, nor did he give it any thought or care, I felt like I needed to do this, because while he had made is own closure long ago, I had not.

For once, I was selfish about my own feelings.

After I read it, I put my phone on my shelf, and sat there in shock. Even though I already knew the answer, I don’t believe I expected the pure bluntness attached to that stupid “no.”

Boy, did I go on a ramage. In a sudden decision, I reached for my phone so incredibly fast I think I’d given myself whiplash, and starting erasing the things that held me in the black goo. I erased the app, accompanied by the “no,” completely, erased all photos, and even the countdown of the day it would have added another month to our relationship. Why I still had it? Even though I knew “our date,” and knew we were over, I honestly think I had kept it for sentimental reasons.
I threw out a few pointless pictures and gifts, blocked their number or profiles in any way I could, and I was free. In deep pain, but free. I no longer allowed myself to associate with my First Love any longer.

It hurt.

That night I cried. The type of crying that made me blind with acidic tears, and caused me to put my face on a pillow to hush the horrible wailing noises coming from my own self. I don’t recall falling asleep, but I remember waking up with a smile, and in dire need of a tissue.

I would like to say thank you, First Love. Thank you for the laughs, listening to my long pointless rants, introducing me to a fairytale of a short forever, and thank you for being my First Love. Even with the uneventful outcome we had achieved, I wouldn’t of wanted it another way.

While I don’t feel stronger because of you, like so many others claim to feel after a break up, I feel stronger because of myself. Because I, me, was able to help my own self. Therefore, I’d like to thank myself as well, for being brave, strong and happy.

With love, strength and bravery, To Myself

I hope you keep our memories close. I hope you find someone you love dearly, just please keep them close. I hope your future life is prosperous and is filled to the brim with joy.
Good luck with life my dear, To My First Love

♡Me