To All the Boys Who Hurt Me

Craig Michaels

Dear Craig,

I hope you've been well in your mansion, surrounded by unimaginable riches. I hope your life of wealth has not been disturbed by those whom you pretended to love, or by those who find fault in your father's company. But I hope you've given me some thought. Given our past together some thought.

Do you remember the first time we met?

When my mother needed hip surgery, her insurance company refused to cover her. So she called the company and argued for hours on the phone. They refused to give in. So she did something unheard of: she marched to the CEO's house.

I don't remember why, but for some reason she felt the need to bring me along. I begged and pleaded for her to let this go, or in the very least, leave me at home. She ignored my protests and dragged me to the front door, ringing the doorbell. That's when you answered the door.

I was struck speechless. I'd realized I was gay only little under a year before that, so to me, you looked like a god. Everything seemed so perfect about you. Your slim, athletic build. The suit you wore that showed off every muscle you had. Your stormy gray eyes and sharp jaw. It was as if you were secretly Aphrodite.

Not another protest left my mouth. I simply stared at you while you casually explained to my mother that your father wasn't looking to see visitors. She screamed you out and demanded to see him. Despite her anger, you remained so calm, and you invited us in.

The moment she knew your father's location, my mother stomped off. I apologized profusely for her behavior and tried to defend her. You laughed that angelic laugh of yours and told me that it was fine.

"This isn't the first time it has happened."

Your voice was so melodic. A chorus of angels singing through your voice box. And your smile. It was so warm I would have believed it was the sun shining down on me. I was head over heels before I even knew your name.

I never expected you to like me. If anything, I expected you to hate me. To think I was a disgusting, upper middle class person who was ruining your day. But by the time my mother reappeared victorious, ready to take me home, I had your number in my phone.

Sometimes I wish you were named Victoria, because then I'd have a song to sing about you. I could pretend to go back and whisper your dirty little secrets to my past self, that way I could save myself from the pain you'd cause. I could save the cracks in my heart.

Alas, there's nothing I can do to stop my younger self.

In the beginning, you were so charming. Every text from you was a shot of dopamine, and every winky face gave me a light, happy feeling. You made me feel so loved. You made me feel so safe. It was heaven. Until our first kiss.

The kiss was magical. Your lips were the softest I've ever felt. You were so gentle and loving, yet so strong and dominating. A smile was permanently affixed to my face as our lips disconnected. Then you told me you wanted secrecy.

It hurt, but I understood. Your father was incredibly wealthy and influential. He had a reputation to uphold, as did you. You couldn't reveal your true self until you could manage on your own. I would remain hidden until the time was right.

Except the time never was right. And I'm guessing it never would have been.

I waited patiently. For seven long, excruciating months. Every second was agony. I couldn't hold your hand in public. I couldn't kiss you in public. You told me to not even look at you in public, in case someone saw. I was to pretend I didn't know you.

I should have left, shouldn't I? I should've saved by heart and simply left you the moment you said our relationship was to remain silent. You shouldn't have deserved to be my first kiss. You didn't deserve to be her's, either.

That's what really got me. That's what truly broke my heart. You told me never to love you in the public eye, that our love was to remain private. And behind closed doors you were the perfect lover. You cared and did everything to make sure I was well. But then you brought her in.

Amanda Peterson.

You two look like a perfect couple. I saw you on the TV a couple days ago, smiling at the cameras. You look so happy together. Her brown hair compliments your blond hair. Your gray eyes match her chocolate brown eyes. Everything about you screams "A Match Made in Heaven."

Everything except me.

I came crying to you the moment I saw you two in a photo together. You were kissing her with the same lips you kissed me with just a day before. I screamed and cried and stomped as I begged you for an answer. You tried to say it was because people were getting suspicious.

"A handsome young man like you should have a girlfriend by this point," People would say. "What are you, gay?"

But every word that left your mouth was as monotone as a news reporter. You weren't trying to reason with me, trying to tell me it was all a facade. You were instructing me to forget about it. That you needed it. Your needs were bigger than mine.

I broke up with you that day. I ran home, sobbing my eyes out, the skies letting down a torrent of rain for me. I didn't know it was possible, but the skies showed more sympathy and care for me than you did in that moment. You didn't apologize. You didn't show emotion. You let me go and never spoke to me again.

I wish I could hate you. I wish I could say that you are the sole reason for what I'm about to do. You broke my heart, took my trust, and acted like nothing ever happened. You were the first domino in the collapse of my life.

But the first wasn't the worst, in this case. And the second certainly wasn't the best. And as much as I hate what you did, you don't deserve my hatred. You don't deserve it anymore than you deserved my love.

So what I will leave you with is this note. This is the final thought you get from me. This is the final pining for a life that never will be. You get to hold onto this letter as you sit beside your beautiful girlfriend. You get to read it as you sit in your posh home, surrounded by everything you could ever desire.

I wish I was among those things.

The boy whose heart you put the first crack in,

Lukas Michaels.