Dear Crush,
Thank you for letting me "love" you then, at the tenderest age of ten, when everything I thought I knew about that word and life in general were things I had only read and seen in books and movies I had devoured in secret.
Kind of like how I "loved" you then. I devoured you and everything about you -- secretly, feverishly, obsessively -- while you went on with your days as usual, not knowing, not caring, not mine while I yearned and longed and "loved" as much as I knew how to then.
When I turned thirteen, with wants and desires violently churning on my insides, I gave in to courage and timidly laid my chapped, bleeding lips on yours.
The saddest part were your eyes once I opened mine, feeling myself returning to reality; your eyes told me everything I already knew but didn't want to know.
Years later, when I returned to the city, I learned of rumors about you and who and how and what you had become. The girlish fantasies were no longer there, but I still felt a certain kind of fondness for you -- an appreciation for your kindness, for the boy who I remembered you as, and not the man everyone told me you were now.
As I sit here, forced to remember you, writing this letter to you now, I sincerely hope you are doing well today, wherever and with whoever you are. Most of all, I hope you never forget who you were then, a boy deserving of a young girl's love when she was merely ten.
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