The first time he entered my life was as someone else's boyfriend. He wore glasses and a red plaid scarf, and I remember thinking how he pulled it off so well. He walked away quickly after our introduction though, interested by more interesting people than me. The second time he entered my life was still as someone else's boyfriend- but a different someone else this time. They suited each other, I'd thought to myself, without a hint of bitterness. Because yes, he was good-looking, but because of that, he was never going to be the boy for me. The third time he entered my life was by himself. He sent me a message asking me a question about flowers. I love flowers. His mother owns a flower shop, and he knows a lot about them. I don't know how it started, but we became friends. And then things became strained because of how crazy I can be. The last time he entered my life, I invited him in. I sent him an invitation and he politely, graciously, accepted. I was afraid of the mistakes I'd made in the past, but he'd seemed to have forgotten them- almost, until he brought them up on the night he told me he loved me. We were under the night sky, under the stars that glittered, and showered hope to anyone who dared look up long enough. That was our thing. Stars. I thought about what you'd said for a second, because I recognized this pivotal moment as the one that would change everything. I told him I loved him too. I haven't looked back since.
