Dear Diary,

Adolescent Infatuation

Nov/ 02/2015

Monday

Dear diary,

Is it not such a shame?

That he sees something in her she herself does not see and she is blinded with naivety of first infatuation, having never before experienced such interest from a man, and never viewing herself in the way most women do because she was a mere teenager. She was unaware in the best and worst way, and she did not understand beauty standards or how they could possibly be applied to her, she still rode her bike around the neighborhood in the summer and still held onto her favorite cartoons like a hoarder. She took her time to grow up, but the world wasn't happy with the pace.

She remembers when she saw him that time, and asked him a question, and she remembers in vivid detail the look he gave her, as if he had just noticed her for the first time, his voice a little wobbly, his eyes wide with surprise, and a small, knowing smile on his face. Even her naive little self knew that something was off, but it was soon over and all was forgotten.

But the interactions grew to be more frequent, and he more bold, making it obvious even to a carefree, oblivious child, that if you had asked, would tell of his affections for the young girl. She saw stars and bright colors, and she felt adrenaline and anticipation every time she knew to expect his arrival. She never knew what it was like to know someone liked you and you liked them back. It was a euphoric, glorious feeling indeed.

Her attachment grew, despite the little she knew of him, because for those fleeting moments he made her feel special, he made the world around her disappear. Perhaps this is the most dangerous of attachments, almost worships of sorts, where she grew so attached to fleeting interactions and interpretations of a boy who never meant to incite such feeling, for his interest in her was merely offhand in nature, and very, very simple: he thought she was pretty.

She held a great admiration for him, and thought him to be the most agreeable boy, despite his habit to enjoy being secluded with himself. The nature of this interaction is that it had been stretched throughout many years, for they rarely saw each other, but he always made sure that when he did see her, to make his interest clear, and she did her best to hide her veneration for a caricature of a boy who would technically be her first love.

After many, many months of not seeing him (mind you after the span of these many years), she had grown much older and much more reasonable. Maybe a little too reasonable. She came to realize the silliness of her obsession with this boy she hardly knew, and her false expectations of the boy she wished he was. It was all a bit of an embarrassment of how unabashed the whole spectacle really was, and her foolishness and eagerness was something she wished had never happened.

She had crushes on other boys, and started to become more self-aware, but for some reason, she couldn't shake away the imprints this boy had left behind on her journey to self-cognizance. She tried to convince herself that it was because he was her first crush, that she couldn't never forget him because of the way he so drastically, so suddenly changed her views on beauty and self-worth, or that the constant, thought of him that remained etched in her mind through all those years was why it was so hard to forget about it all, but she never had a real answer.

Perhaps it was because she still liked him. She hated that possibility, she hated how she couldn't help but feel her heart leap into her chest when she saw him unexpectedly, she hated how no matter how hard she worked to expel him from her past that he still remained, handsomer and surer and more agreeable than ever.

It was a tragic story of affections, where he was now wary and mindful of her attachment of the past, perhaps feeling foolish for his incitement of those emotions, and feeling embarrassed for his past behavior. He was still curious to see if she still felt the same, because, like her, tried his hardest to forget those harmless exchanges, but failed. And maybe, just maybe, there was a little part of him that still felt the same too.