Warning: this is a very personal post.
Last summer, after many, many attempts, I finally managed to leave my boyfriend of 5 years. One thing that my past relationships taught me, is that love is pain.
The first time I ever felt love, I was 17. I can still remember every detail about him. The smell of his skin, the softness of his lips, his almond eyes… It was pure love. We would spend hours laying in his bed, holding each other so tight, listening to our heartbeats going faster. I remember wanting to never be apart from him. I remember the nights where I had to sneak out of my bedroom to call him good night. I remember thinking of him 1st thing in the morning. I remember looking at him for hours and never wanting to close my eyes. I remember the laughs, and the hugs. I remember making love for the 1st time. I remember writing about him in my diary, drawing little hearts everywhere. I remember him hiding in my closet. I remember us getting our ears pierced together. I remember holding hands. I remember him giving me a ring.
I remember fighting with my mother who didn’t want me to have a boyfriend. I remember everything. I remember the tears falling down my cheeks. I remember him not calling me as much anymore. I remember him not answering my calls. I remember me waiting for hours in front of his door to finally see him. I remember him, telling me he didn’t love me anymore. I remember the pain, I remember me throwing the ring in my backyard. I remember the tears. I remember the nights listening to sad love songs and crying, crying. I remember calling my sister in tears, when I finally understood that he was in love with another girl. I remember feeling anger. I remember the yelling. I remember me still loving him and giving him love. I remember hating myself. I remember me being so ashamed.
I remember moving on. I remember feeling alive again. I remember the sweet summers with my friends and family. I remember meeting someone special. I remember feeling love again.
