I didn’t love him when I met him. I didn’t even like him, truth be told. I was a new student in our class and he went around asking who “the mystery feminist girl” among the newbies was. I got annoyed and thought I should try my best to avoid him, to keep things simple. After all, it was our senior year.
Unfortunately, he had proven really hard to avoid. Impossible, even. He made sure to sit with me in classes and in the dining hall. He stayed up after hours with me, when I waited for my parents to pick me up. You might call it stalking. In fact, I could’ve called it stalking, too, if it wasn’t for the simple truth that I liked talking to him. We discussed politics, and books, and languages, and people. All kinds of stuff. Feminism, too, but to this day we can’t quite settle on this one.
He was too loud and cursed a lot. His jokes were sometimes appalling and sometimes plain stupid, not a hint of humour in them. But underneath all of that attitude, he was a hopeless romantic, too sweet for my taste.
Our story might not sound that romantic to you, but it was the soap opera the whole teacher collective followed religiously. I was complimented on the way I seemed to calm him down during the lessons, he became quite tolerable because of me. I was disgusted to be reduced to a pacifier for a tantrum-toddler.
Maybe, that’s the reason why, when we started dating that senior year of high school, it never quite worked out then. It was all too late for us. We held hands when other people were losing their virginity. We kissed on the cheek and it was funny even to out teachers. I didn’t know how to handle a relationship and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in one. We broke up on our prom night and this is by far the cruellest thing I’ve ever done to a person. It was as if I needed to break his heart in order to heal mine.
The experience was awful and heartbreaking, but we did care for each other. We knew things about each other that we had never shared before, not with anyone else. We knew we’d keep it a secret. We wanted to be in each other’s lives, we shared interests and (some) beliefs. We were still really fond of each other.
That’s why, when freshmen year came and it turned out that we’d chosen the same college, I decided to give it another go. Maybe, I was lonely. Maybe, I got jealous of the new girlfriend he’d managed to find before the classes even started. Maybe it was painful to see him with someone else. Maybe, it was terrifying to face the new reality with the classes and new people I know nothing about alone.
Whatever the reason was, the relationship we have now is much healthier than it could ever have been before. It’s built on trust and honesty and the great thing is -- now we both want it.
It seems so unexciting when you already know the person and there’s nothing new to discover, yet it is the most intimate thing. I know that I can truly be myself when I’m with him. He loves me in the morning, with my hair all tangled up and before I brush my teeth, just as much as he does me in high heels and all dolled up. He loves talking art and discussing classics with me, but he also likes to share stupid jokes and cat videos. We don’t have to go to a fancy restaurant for a date when we both know we’d much rather order takeout and stay in. We accept each other as we are, I think that’s what unconditional love is
all about. It doesn’t have to do with how much money we spend on presents or with who pays for the coffee, or with any of the high standards a typical relationship is held to these days.
We live together, but I don’t think we’re getting married, for example. Why bother? Who do we have to prove ourselves to? We exchanged rings during a movie night, as a joke. They were onion rings. I think that’s as far as it’s going to get.
I didn’t see sparkles in his eyes when we first met, and our story is definitely not movie plot material. I didn’t love him when I met him, because I didn’t know him. I do now.
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