Looking back on it now, I wonder if what I felt was ever truly love. Perhaps it was never love, but rather a fleeting fascination with the idea of being understood, or worse—being wanted. There was a boy. I liked him. Or at least, I thought I did. I spoke of him endlessly to my friends, so much so that they grew tired of hearing his name. When I confessed, I did so hoping for rejection. I wasn't ready to carry the weight of affection. But instead, he returned my feelings, and in that moment, I was lost. If I had known what I wanted back then, I would have stayed silent. I regret speaking those words, not because they were untrue, but because I never thought beyond them.

He became my first boyfriend—though "boyfriend" feels like a foreign title, something that never truly fit. I wasn't even allowed to have one. He was quiet, reserved, the opposite of everything I was. And yet, when we met in person, it felt like the sun had somehow slipped through a crack in the sky and into my day. But even those fleeting moments of happiness felt... wrong. I tried to convince myself that his silence didn't bother me, but it gnawed at me quietly, like a wound I couldn't see but always felt.

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He was sweet through messages, but in person, I was left chasing the ghost of affection. I became desperate—like a stray dog, wagging its tail in hopes of scraps. And when I finally got his attention, I would think: "This is it? This is all I was waiting for?" He loved me, I knew that much. But I could never make sense of the way he showed it. Love in real life isn't like the movies, and I paid the price for learning that too late.

We never had dates, no celebrations of months gone by. We were only students, after all—young and broke, with nothing but words to exchange. And those words, though they were enough at the time, always felt hollow when I told him I loved him. Deep down, I knew I didn't mean it. In the end, I broke up with him. I couldn't keep lying to myself, and I certainly couldn't feed him with pretty words I didn't believe. There was nothing left to build with, only truths I had been too afraid to admit. I never asked him how he felt that night. Perhaps I was too cruel, or perhaps I knew that asking would do nothing but deepen a wound that was already inevitable.

We lasted 250 days, I think. It's strange how the heart only reveals the truth when everything is over. I realize now that I liked him, but I never loved him. I liked the way he was different from me, I liked his drawings, and I liked the way his silence intrigued me. But that was all it was—an interest, a flicker of curiosity mistaken for love.

If I could go back, I would say nothing at all. Some things are better left as they are, untouched by the illusion of wanting more.