Do you remember the day we met?

I remember that day. I remember the evolution of you as you got older. I remember how easy our relationship was back then. Before we got older, before I became a heartbreaker, and before you spoke your wishes out loud.

I remember that my mental health was insufferably low the day I met you; the desperate scratches in my journal were evidence of this.

I was 15 years old at a small college competing in journalism, which I hated but was too chicken to drop out. My friend group consisted of me and two “smart kids.” You know what I mean. The ones who took AP classes and tried not to pity my “regular” mind. These two girls lived for journalism, and when they weren’t competing during the regional event, they were observing those who were.

I felt so alone. So empty. I remember using an old track phone to text my 20-year-old sister, begging her to call me, to distract me from my loud surroundings and lonely insides.

To explain my consistent anger and coldness, I must first dive into said mental health. See, I thought depression was purely circumstantial, and if my life wasn’t falling apart, I didn’t “deserve” to say I was depressed. Guess what? My life wasn’t falling apart--I had two loving parents who loved each other, took care of my siblings and me, and hadn’t lost anyone to death at this point. And yet, I still felt this swirling black hole inside of my chest, inside of my mind. I knew nothing about depression or why I felt this way. These feelings of emptiness, exhaustion, shame, and confusion all mashed together to create my defense mechanism: anger, bitterness, and apathy.

That’s why I didn’t acknowledge you when you came to talk to me. I was defensive. I thought from your friends’ laughter, you were all making fun of me. Later you told me that they were teasing you because I was a pretty girl.

You stood, walked up to me without looking at me, and announced to the room that you were playing a game, and anybody could join. I glared up at you, wondering who this obnoxious, loud, arrogant boy was.

You left me alone after that, but when my friends arrived, you joined our table to befriend them. After all, journalism was everything to you too, so you had some common ground.

I didn’t talk to you, but I observed you. I bet you don’t know that, even to this day. But I noticed the scars hidden beneath long sleeves. I noticed you shying away from food, even when it was offered to you. I noticed because I found my common ground with you--my depression.

You stood and told my friends your event was coming up. But before you walked away, you locked eyes with me and said, “May I just say, you are incredibly gorgeous!”

I remember word for word because no one had ever told me that before.

I knew you were being genuine, but you vanished before I could connect with you. Were you nervous around me? Is that why you waited to speak to me until you had to leave?

I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and soon, the event ended. My friend couldn’t let you slip away, though, because she had seen the look in your eye when you delivered that compliment. She noticed as I observed you beforehand. She knew that you and I needed each other.

Though my school was heading to the bus at the close of the event, my friend rushed to you to get your phone number. I know you remember that part wrong because later you told me you thought I asked for your number myself. But I was much too bashful and blushed at the mere thought.

I texted you on my way home and every day after that. I told my family about you, absorbing all their giddy, gossip-hungry attention. I retold the story of meeting you to a dozen people, each of them “ooo-ing” at the romantic details. (I wonder if Taylor Swift wrote Enchanted for the two of us?)

The interesting thing is, at 15 years old, I had never received positive male attention before, so while I basked in the attention you gave me, not to mention my dramatic friends and family, I don’t think I cared for you romantically. I loved our talks about Taylor Swift, therapy, and family drama, but I never flirted with you. Not yet, anyway.

I want to know your side of the story. I want to know what went through your head eight years ago. I want to know the reasons you ghosted me, what you felt while I was hurt and confused, and I want to know when you started to love me (if I had to guess, it was while you were dating Kylie).

I wonder how often you think of that day. Do you think about every coincidence that led up to me getting your number, and you finding mine again after months of not talking? Do you think about the chance meeting I had with you when we were both in college? Did you notice how I craved your attention, even with my possessive boyfriend in the room with us?

Mostly, I want to know why you changed everything.

I wonder if fate is conscious of the cruelty of allowing two people to fall in love, knowing we could never be together.

If I could change a single detail of our story, I wouldn’t. Because the twists and turns, the ups and downs, just make it that much more magical. So give me the picnics, the tears, the long drives, and misunderstandings because that’s our story, and that’s what made us...us.

All My Love,

Miss Americana