We met the first day of seventh grade in the lunch line at school. You turned around, looked at me for about a second, and said: “Hey, wanna go out with me?” I was so flustered, and so shocked- I literally remember the wheels in my head turning, not knowing what to do. You were so cute, and I didn’t want to offend you, but I thought you were making fun of me. So I responded with:
“I don’t even know your name.”
Well, I know your name now. It’s been almost four years to the day we met, and here we are. Can you believe that? When I was 12, and you were 14- could you have even imagined us together now- 16 and 18?! I know your flaws, and you know mine. I forgive you of yours, you forgive me of mine. You open my eyes, and I keep you grounded. There’s this ebb and flow, this give and take. It’s so perfect.
I still remember the day you told me your mother died when you were six, like it was fact. And then the day you said I was prettier without make-up, like her. And the day you told me how she died, and that you were there. I remember how these things progressed as we grew older and trusted each other more.
But this, this is a whole new thing: You gave me a seashell, given to you by your mother. You said you wanted me to have it.
That’s such a big deal, and I understand that. I’ve told you already how much it means to me that you gave me the seashell, and I just really hope you know. I love you so much that I don’t have words.
Thank you. For everything.