The first time I fell in love, I kept it to myself for a whole year. I bottled up that feeling, and chucked it away as far as I could. I didn’t know what to do with it. No matter how far I threw it, I could always feel it inside me. It was a small thing the size of a peach pit, nestled, entangled within my innards. It weighed a thousand pounds.
I don’t know what forces guide us, the first time we do anything. But after four hundred days of quiet desperation, I calmly walked to the corner store and bought some stationery. And then I proceeded to write her a letter.
I waited a day.
Memory does funny things to past events. It takes facts and stretches them, until they become legend. What I remember of that letter is that it went on for multiple pages. Maybe four, maybe five. And the gist of it was: I can’t stop thinking about you. But it was so indirect and gutless, I wouldn’t have blamed her if she didn’t get the message in the midst of all the incoherence.
The letter was written in one night, but it took several more nights before I had managed to muster up the gusto to send it to her.
And then I did.
And thus began the story of the first time I fell in love.