I could write a whole novel about you. Not because I want to start a cliche love story, where theres a girl and a boy and one chases the other and in the end they’re together. Because I broke down your wall. I knew who you were. Your favorite movies, your favorite books. How you would stay up all night playing tetris or a soccer video game. How you would call me on the phone… and we wouldn’t say anything. We would laugh and giggle and tease and not hangup without saying “I love you”. We would text Goodmorning’s to eachother everyday. You would text me long paragraphs to reassure me that you truly did love me. I knew that you hated the father you don’t ever see and hate the new person in your home with your mom. I know you have such funny friends who I loved, and I trusted. I knew that you weren’t the jealous type unless I got high with some boys or went to a party and drank. I knew that you got bored of us, of me. 4 times we tried, and broke. The phone calls started to annoy you, and the conversation would be a pattern of how are you’s and are you okay’s. We hungup without saying “I love you”. The Goodmorning texts stopped, and I was lucky enough to get a “goodnight”.
Now I read all of the meaningful things that you had said to me. I saved them on my phone. I always think that some day, I’ll write a novel about you. Because I could.
But then again, you were my first love. And everyone has one of those. The story would just be another cliche love story that everyone has already read.