Dear the first,
You were the first boy to make me feel special, to make me ignore all the others. The day you went on holiday I spent $100 on text messages. When my mother went to my phone provider to tell them it was wrong she asked for a list of numbers I had texted that day, yours was the only one. I was smitten in a way only a girl with her first high school romance could be. I remember the day you broke up with me via Facebook message (how 2011), I don’t think I left my bed, and my older brother just laughed. Your Facebook password was still my name, yet you had arranged to go on a date with my friend three days prior.
Dear the second,
I was weary around my school friends when you came about, even if we were set up by one of them. It was okay though, she hated you three weeks later for something I will never know. I hated the way you dressed, but I loved the way you treated me like the most prized possession you owned. I never met your friends, but you never really met mine either. You turned up at my house in pyjamas, sang high school musical and didn’t find my at–the-time one direction obsession too alarming. I think we were more best friends than anything, but that didn’t mean I didn’t cry myself to sleep when I found out you were also seeing the only other person I’d spoken about you with. Maybe the person who had set us up knew all along, maybe it wasn’t even real, maybe I’d made up our entire relationship in my head.
Dear the third,
I feel like you should have been the first, considering you’ve known me longer than I’ve known myself. I was too naive and young when the other boys broke my heart to notice that you were doing the same. Sometimes you make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world, but in a second you break that down with your words. You make me feel like the ant you crush beneath your shoe as you storm away from me in anger. You make me feel like I’m not good enough, that nothing I ever do is right. I go away, I don’t talk to you for weeks sometimes even months, but you pull me back in. I wish loving you was an addiction I could go to rehab for, but I know they’ll do nothing more than laugh at me, for you can never let go of unconditional love. You make me tear myself apart, wondering why I’ve never been good enough, wondering why I always feel second best, yet I’ll never hate you. It feels like it’s a game for you, like you get some sort of high from it.
Thank you all for a lot of things though. Thank you for teaching me how to be strong. Teaching me to love myself first, and how to appreciate high school musical properly. Thank you for the firsts, the lasts, and everything in between. But most of all, thank you for (hopefully) loving me.