Last year, for my birthday, I went parachuting. Yeah, I was only sixteen but my dad knew a guy. My dad knows every guy. Anyways, I was so excited. Most people get nervous before hand; not me. I wanted to jump and feel the fall. I wanted to feel as if I had left my stomach back in the plane, 100 yards behind. I wanted to feel free. Once on the plane with my dad, my bright yellow, plastic-y jumpsuit and the random guy they were going to strap me to, I was jittering with excitement. When we were high enough, the heavy steel doors were swung open and we lined up. Being the minor, I had to go last and I just could not wait my turn. Finally was up and I was ready. I was strapped to my guy, my goggles were on and I had learned all the safety measures. So, we jumped. And I fell. Really, I fell. Most people think that the parachute immediately opens; they're wrong. We fell for a full minute before opening the chute. At first, all I felt was adrenaline. And that's all I felt for a while: adrenaline, excitement and being free. The best mix of feelings. But all at once, I was scared. The falling, the fact that yes, I had left my stomach in the plane, the fear of the what-ifs, the fear of stopping, that's when I freaked. I made the man pull the parachute early and I cried the rest of the way down, tears burning rivers on my cheeks.
That's how it was with me and you. The excitement of having a crush. The free-fall feeling of dating the most unbelivable person and then being scared that I couldn't keep up with all that you were.
