Dear Ben,

I am writing this to you to let you know that I never got over you. I doubt you even know I was in a position where getting over you was possible., so let me explain: I was head over heels in love with you. You were the first I ever loved. Every day was just a long wait for the last period, where I could sit next to you. You'd make me laugh. I was the only one who heard the things you said under your breath. If I was lucky, you'd hug me. You don't know how much you meant to me. I was just coming into myself, realizing who I was and what I wanted, and I needed something to latch on to. When you let me hold you, when you joked around with me, I knew who I was; I was a person who needed you. Now, in a mind less fogged with unrequited love, I realize that you were just another guy who, confident in his sexuality, felt some strange need to feign affection for other males. The humor in that is lost on me. Then again, I am on the receiving end. I have never been good at controlling romantic desire; I know my flaws. If you knew how I felt, I am sure you would have stopped. But I still remember one day in class, where we were bored and suddenly, you reached out and grabbed my hand. I don't know how long it actually lasted, but it felt like a lifetime. When you let go, you laughed and smiled at me. I still don't know what to make of that. Were you kidding? Were you finally being serious? Did you want to be with me, or not? Because honestly, there was only so much I could take. I convinced myself we were meant to be together, whether you liked me or not. I threw myself into a fit. To be honest, I barely even remember that time. I shut it out of my brain, those few months where I fell so low. I'm not even sure exactly what happened. I know these things: I wanted to die. I wrote a letter to my parents, telling them I was gay. My mom cried. My dad was silent. I told them I was depressed. I went to a therapist. I took some tests. I got diagnosed. My dad and I decided it would be better if I didn't take medication. Eventually, my parents got over it. They're even starting to talk about it casually occasionally now. But sometimes I doubt myself. I can barely remember going to a therapist. Those months, however, are gone, and I am beyond that. But you, whether you know it or not, are tied to that section of my life. You are intrinsically a part of me coming into full being. You may not even remember me any more. We haven't talked in over a year. I miss you. I will never forget you.


Love,
Rob.