I wrote a post on this last night and saved it. I decided to wait so I could think about it though. Did I want to be completely honest. It wouldn't come out right. Not much I say ever does. So no, I'm not going to post it. I'll give a much less poetic synopsis of it.
I was 14 and he was almost 19 when we got to together, and yes, I know that was too young, and so did he. Suffice it to say he was a gentleman. We were neighbors. I was young, silly, and in love, the kid of love that takes your breath away and defies any source of reason. I was never a reasonable person anyway. He had a truck, was a musician, and only wore black. He was nice to me, nicer than anyone I ever knew. He listened to me, was one of the first people that ever did. We dated for 1 year and 2 months, and one day out of the blue, he drove off, and it was over. There was no warning, no I think we should be friends, no I want to break up. He looked at me, walked away, and drove off. I could take loosing a boyfriend I think, but it was really hard loosing my best friend. I did Emo in all it's glory.
I went to bed, refused to eat, and I'll never forget it was November. I hated winter every day since. My mother grew worried. I would overhear her talking to my grandmother. Grandma's soup appeared, my favorite. They begged me to eat. I lost a lot of weight. I was never really big to begin with, a junior size 13. I went out and bought pink things, lots of colored clothes, and I dated the first boy that came my way, a preppy little thing. I was 15. He kissed me on our first date and I cried the entire time. Like I said, I did emo proud just without the black.
A year later I met my husband.