Not My First

For the past two years and seven months, I’d been in a serious relationship. Yea, many people will think teenage relationships can’t be serious or any sorts of mature, but mine was. At least I like to think it was.

It wasn’t my first relationship. He wasn’t my first love or my first kiss or even my first boyfriend. But he was the first guy to show me what it was like to be in a real relationship; where there was trust and love and honesty. Where there were no games or extra people involved, where it didn’t feel as if a simple social media status or posted picture meant it was real. I never had to guess how he felt about me or if we were still an item. No one of us was a better person than the other; we were equals. He was the first guy I brought home to officially meet my parents, to spend a couple hours with my family on Christmas Eve and Day, to take me on dates that weren’t accompanied by my sister or where I had to be picked up my mom. It was grown up.

We were friends and lovers and support systems for each other. It was real in all the ways it could be more than a relationship that started at seventeen.

And the reality about this is that it’s all in past tense. As much as it’s something I hate to see or even say, it is.

For the past month, we’d been going through a rough time. We became distant from each other and constantly found ourselves not knowing how to fill in our silence or conversations. Hand holding became something extinct by the end of this.

Though I know the reasons as to why this might have happened, I’ll say we simply grew apart. And I say might because I still don’t know exactly what happened. I don’t know entirely what drew us apart or why we began to feel alone when we were together. I can only be certain that we didn’t do much to fix it. At least, we thought we were trying to fix it. We really were just leaving it alone, letting it fester, hoping it was something that would pass on its own or that the other person would put in the grand effort that would take us out if it. But neither of us did.

We broke up a week ago. We haven’t had any other sorts of communication. I had to delete him off my Snapchat and Facebook because I felt a constant NEED to check what he was posting, to see what he was doing without me. And when I did check, I hated myself and felt pathetic for being upset when it seemed like he wasn’t missing me.

I’ve been in three long-term relationships since I was thirteen. For the past six years, I’ve been a part of someone else, a duo. I’ve grown into my skin being comfortable with always having someone there rather than others who got to discover themselves as individuals.

Maybe this is a good thing. I’ll be able to discover things on my own and figure out just what my abilities are. As much as it hurts, it might just be a good thing.

Right now, I’m doing okay.



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