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A Descriptive Essay


by Anonymous



Growing up, I spent too many hours in front of the television watching romance movies with my oldest sister. And when she reached dating age, we would spend nights giggling over every romantic gesture her boyfriend made that day. I would go to sleep and my mind would conjure up endless scenarios of when I would have my chance for a prince charming. I thought that was the love I had to have in my life and according to the movies. I would accomplish that in high school. Unfortunately for the seven year-old hopeless romantic [redacted], I’d graduate without a high school sweetheart. I did, however, experience brief infatuations followed by the surprising realization that despite how much I fantasized about love, I didn’t really want it.

My first relationship, if it could even be called that, ended after two weeks—three if I’m being generous and including the one week Spring Break in between. Oliver Olsen, my first boyfriend, and I shared a relationship that was the definition of puppy love. The first week was like experiencing fireworks for the first time. The amazement of staring into the sky, waiting for some design of vibrant colors to paint it.

Love is associated with the colors pink and red, but Oliver always made me think of blue. Initially, it was cyan—I’d look at him like the sky on a sunny day and his every touch was a brush of warmth from the sun’s rays. When he took my first kiss, his lips were soft clouds—so soft that they transformed into wisps of fog. Their light touch that grazed me could do no wrong. But fog is just a caress of blindness before the rain.

The second week with Oliver was like walking through a thunderstorm with no umbrella. The sun was quick to call upon gray clouds that would allow it to cower when roses didn’t bloom after only a few days of hearing sweet words and a daunting ‘I love you’. That’s when I began to connect Oliver with midnight blue. Dark, harsh, and selfish like the sea on a stormy day with no remorse for what boats attempted to sail across.

My second relationship was a year later with Christopher Bailey. For three months, there was an invisible rope that kept us together, until I was once again faced with the words ‘I love you’. I found myself thinking Chris was inconsiderate to say that and expect to hear it back from me, but we were in a relationship; maybe I was inconsiderate for not being able to reciprocate.

‘Love’ for years had been a fairytale in my head- something that I always wanted as a child. But once I was in situations where I was supposed to feel it, I realized the only one I was enamored with was me. I was infatuated with myself and thrived off of knowing that someone else was too, but I didn’t really want to share my love at the end of the day. Outside of family members, the only person I’ve said I love you to is the girl in the mirror. She deserves all the flowers that can be bought, and to hear all the sweet nothings that can be said. Selfishly, I only liked Chris and Oliver because they agreed and spent their time enthralled with me.

As a child I was a hopeless romantic that dreamed about finding “the one”. But at sixteen I realized despite the movies and my own fantasies, I did not want to be in love with anyone that wasn't myself. While little [redacted] hadn’t expected it, “the one” had always been with her, and admittedly, I like the idea of just me far more than myself with any ‘prince charming’. It was an epiphany that allowed me to enjoy the rest of my time in high school without feeling pressured that I had to find someone to spend it with.

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