In 9th grade, I wrote a love letter to a boy. I imagine it was entirely dramatic—depicting my teenage longing and the color of his eyes with gag-inducing metaphors—but genuinely heartfelt, and honest nonetheless. And while I tried my hardest to emulate the letter-writing greats, like Oscar Wilde and John Keats, my letter read like a scene from Degrassi with the raw emotion of a Dashboard Confessional hit.
I met him in a room filled with words handwritten by the lonely and the suffering, unaware that eventually, I’d thread him through my own pages, weaving the fabric of my volumes with our memories. I couldn’t have recognized the foreshadowing.
I dragged myself to my second-floor window, and clung to the sill with white knuckles—my lungs laboring against the thick, hot air. Tears poured from my ducts like unhinged floodgates, and choking back sobs, I watched as he reluctantly backed out of his parking space, and out of my life.
It is inevitable that the people I love the most will disappointment or hurt me. This statement is not rooted in pessimism—it’s a statistical fact. Those with unlimited access to my heart are the ones with the greatest probability to cause harm.
In all facets of love, we are the most vulnerable.