When I was 15 I had no real friends, and that was okay. Being shut up alone inside was fine as long as I didn't give myself time to think. I had some laughs, and I had classmates, and I wrote and wrote and wrote and it was alright.

But then the **** boy had to sing.

Not just musically, though god knows he did that wonderfully too. He sang to me with his weirdness and brains and odd duck humor that I relished in.

We even really met in a musical, as poetic as it is.

I spent every afternoon around him, and I thought he just laughed back at me in his confident, beautiful, lyrical way. I was a little in love with him.

One day I found myself shouting at him about being prying, and him at me for being secretive, and somehow it ended with me telling him that he was my secret. That the way I could close my eyes and picture the road map of his heart through the words that he sang was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

It was the first day I ever heard him stutter.

After some awkward verbal fumblings and confused wires, we collided, two insecure children thinking we were artistic adults. We saw ourselves as some grand creative romance when really we were two weird kids finding infatuation under bright stage lights.

After a few weeks more stumbling, and harsh words around, that initial fizzling collision just kept on colliding until our heads were jostled a little too well.

I broke his heart in a high school hallway, only a month after we began.

Like the artist he was, he poetically asked me for a final kiss before letting me go.

Also, poetically, it ended up not being our final kiss at all. But trust me, despite my desperation to try the collisions and passion again, he made sure that second final kiss really was the last.

That was the end of our love story.