Let me take you on a walk, back to four years ago.

Her name was Paige. I still have this tattered binder of inked Hilroy pages of all the poetry I’d written about her that summer. 

I want to capture the state of mind I’d been in those two years. But there’s something so innocent and raw about the feeling of young love, that I can no longer put into words. I was fifteen years old, starry-eyed, and in love with everything from Disney stars to the NY-LA lifestyle. 

I had long held onto this notion of fairy tale weddings and storybook romances. That mentality started to slip from my clutches the Friday before March break, ’09.

She sat there on the carpet in the drama room, blonde hair and hazel eyes. We talked for the first time that day, and there was this gravitational pull she emitted that I have never experienced since.

I’m no longer bitter about the fallout. I’ll always look back on her with fondness in my mind. I only wish that losing her wasn’t the price I had to pay to grow up.

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