Dear Ms. High School Girl
Dear Ms. High School Girl,
There is a corner in my room where I keep pictures, mementos, reminders of my life if you will. I rummaged through it last night and found a particular picture. We were 16, at that particular party. The picture was one my best friend took of us holding hands dancing. It was a candid unprepared shot. Back then, I thought you were really pretty that night. even now.
I’d love to forget about those awkward High School moments. Girls wanting to be women with their thick make-up, boys with their weird sense of fashion(me included). Back then, I thought fashion was a ploy to take over the world. (and it turned out to be true) But, I’ll never forget that night with you. I’ll never forget you asking me to get you some iced tea instead of some beer. I’ll never forget you calling out to your friends when I wanted to be alone. I’ll never forget about you, especially the you I dragged to the veranda. The you I wanted to have my first kiss with but never got.
The 23 year old me would probably just have laughed at the silly young boy who danced( at least he tried) with you. He wouldn’t have done it differently.
The 10 minutes I won’t ever forget with her is probably the most awkward moment together. I pulled you out to the veranda, I should’ve gotten you a beer instead of some bottled water. I should have said I wanted to kiss her, and maybe she would’ve let me. If she did, maybe this would’ve been more than just a fond and awkward, distant, and fond memory.
The me today, probably would probably kill the 16 year old me for being such a wimp. For not being able to say his feelings straight out. I suppose that the young boy and the man are two entirely different people, but the boy this man used to be never really forgot that night.
I forget when was the first time I let go of that memory. You were one of the best things that happened in High School. The type every high school boy would’ve wanted. You’ve probably also forgotten about me now. But if at least, you do remember something about that night, let it be something you’ll never ever let go of. We never really had anything in common, but the 17 yer old boy, just never let go.
He never got to tell her how he loved that black dress you wore, or how he wanted to hold her hand forever. In that house full of badly dressed teenagers trying to look like men and women, the boy secretly thought that she was the prettiest girl in the room. He never told you how his hands on her waist made him feel like a man. He never told her how he felt about her.
He never got to tell her thank you for being the first girl he fell in love with.
Just for that reason, even if he tried, he’ll probably never ever forget.
